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| (Still . . . Is this the beach where winter edges through To capture grain by grain the failing land? Or do we tango on the higher ground With blood and body binding me to you?) II. In the world we made The clock and calendar, collecting rain, Were sprung and worn away as elder teeth, The flatware and the baby strollers salted up. Who knows, we asked ourselves. The canyon wind carved inches with each gust And you could see the contours alter In an indigo unlike the street lamp's gleam. We'd left behind the camouflage, The pink eviction notices, The unmet expectations each time  | The house lights dimmed (Who makes this stuff?). We found a four-and-three on Easy Street With ideal views of tidal basin, water tower, St. Jude's, The perfect spot to monitor the complications Posed by the late and listless, the off-duty, The chronic world-promisers - Best to keep them close, so invitations flowed: How is Thursday night for cake and coffee? Better yet, a Wednesday morning audit with the Volunteer Brigade? They'll check the valves, Assess the risk of immolation (You don't smoke? Oh.) And grant broad dispensation should the wiring Prove rodent-gnawed. For no one likes To own up to those uncaulked gaps, The worn-through spots inviting night  | |||
