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
bishops;

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

goes on behind those doors
goes on.