NOVEMBER 5TH

A fire engine threads
Traffic on 16th St.
Sky portending rain
Myself pretending
That it remains okay
To wallow in defeat
And avoid the news
Though undoubtedly
Someone is dying
In Iraq and someone
Is plotting in D.C.
And here I am alone
In Brooklyn listening
To Devendra Banhart
Over the passing din
Of ambulances, I’m
Wondering when
Balance will restore
Itself and how much
Violence it will take
Like a conflagration
Weeding out rank
Undergrowth, though
Nature and human
Nature couldn’t seem
More dissimilar some
Mornings, such as
This, clouds briskly
Compassing patches
Of uncorrupted blue
In stark relief against
My view of red brick
Pierced with windows
One of whose curtain
Hs been blown askew
By the wind, revealing
A gloomy little chair
Under a bare bulb
In a dingy kitchen
And a cat asleep
On the counter
Beside the knives