Today

On the street a womanyells, "Zebulon is that you?"And my neighbor is paintinga mural on his garage,an open mouthwith gravestone-sized teeth.He says he got the imagefrom his dream.At the corner mechanic'sthe impact wrench rattleslike muffled gunfire,all birdsong drownedin the stalwart compressor'sincessant yearning.The world must be fixed,or rejected, or called to—howto praise these strange streetsthese neighborhoods awashin time's hose-gush current?I can feel it passing over,around, and through us,shooting the clouds bylike bees or missiles,the rapid successionof ceaseless repetition—darkness pools, bleeds away,regroups, gives way againto day. I can almost hearthe tree limbs stretching,the attic termitesnibbling at the rafters.The grid of streetsweighs heavy on the earthlike a net pulled tightagainst a face.Where are the orangesand oysters, the elephants,javelins, smoked meats, and hors d'oeuvres,the syrups, tinctures, tonics—Where's the vin de liqueur?And is this my placein the mundane trafficamongst the rushed and the harried?I am not Zebulon.I'm so painfully ordinary.God, give me something,anything to praise—the wrenches keeptightening, untightening—or make me the sheepwhose guts let the banjo play.