Spilt dusk light on the river,
silver as mercury.

It’s not art
until you mention it;

not art, I heard, until you
notice the ache in it.

Every car thunks a loose
manhole cover on Main Street.

A flagless flagpole clinks its cord.

One fat cumulus billows like
the great robes of

the untaut screens of porch doors
undulate in the breeze. And what

goes on behind those doors
goes on.