Wednesday, September 14, 2011


The provinces breed dreamers;
the railroads are full:
trappers, hoboes, eccentric electricians.
They are singing lullabies.
The men are singing.

Off in the dawn we hear a whistle
and shut the window against it.
A friend must be waiting by the hayrick.
It's true: we have nothing in common with these eccentrics!
They have so many children in tow.
They assert unconvincingly
of a master plan.
It's true we fear their time consuming plans:
canals, irrigation schemes, railroad spurs.
Out there are plans like locusts.

Blackbirds are singing.
The woman next door is spraying her roses.
If our neighbor believed in dogs
I believe it might be waking.
Water stiffens the hoses.
Our house is burning down.

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