Wednesday, November 16, 2016
Driving Through Hobart, Indiana, 5 A.M., November 9, 2016
had meaning and the houses of the morning
stretched into darkness.
In the flat light of the sun
I could dissect dandelions'
gray conductive tissue–
miracle without magic–
and see the future's compromises.
But this morning the tiny lights
of kitchens roll by where parents
nervously pour the cereal,
and dogs' nails skitter on the tiles.
In my heart a lovely terror
blooms for all the houses
falling into the past. I don't call it
compassion. This morning
I know it is true I've lost nothing.