Parentheses

I was impatient in the parking lotof the Pleasant Ridge Elementary Schoolleafing in a stained coverless kickedto the floor copy of E. E. Cummings

when it was vouchsafed to me that joyis found only in the parentheses betweendays and weeks and months and years

that continuity is a fiction, force fit tothe mold of biography, to impose orderon a jettisoned jumbled tumbled heap.

Beyond the windshield a robin beakedstalks and down to build a snug nestin which to love, plunging insouciantlyinto green stolen from wind and snow.