Changing Shirts in the Car

for MJ

Birds on the wire thickly conspirewhile the afternoon grows lemon, and islanded.

The peonies are absurd. The true namefor all that I see sits isolate

in a public house, and I will nottrouble to find her there. You will understand

if, instead, I admit I can see only the cowl,unembroidered, of right now, this quicksilver

happening. And if you name it you lose it — anything.I know that our enemies, even could they be made

to retreat, would foul the wells. Our odd joysand our quiet are undercut, streaked by such facts.

I want no certainty that cannot stand this Atlantic wind,this mealy light. Quince blossoms hold the line

and laten. Nothing in which I have faithis worthy of worship.