There were explosions over sky, I
had heard of the bomb makers
behind stone walls, as I rise from this bed
as others try but can’t and decide
I can be anyone, anywhere, doing anything.
I write of the most intimate things: a wicker
basket moved under a desk, the steam
radiator too hot throughout winter. Here I play
at nothing, am content to watch a summer
storm dump three inches of rain, drown the azaleas,
threaten to wash away some town deep
in the heart of Jersey.
Here it all seems so easy: the woman on the screen
in a sparkling dress, the official waving behind
a phalanx of security. Easy. Like the ache of love for
the dark haired woman, her beauty, a mirage,
dissolving into the scorching heat of a July noon.