The chair sprang up—a sofa of grainfield—
and sat there (smooth, plush),
alone for once,
unused in pollen and madrigals
of missing time. Time, you see,
was plastic. And the punctured
occurred—so the balking robins stayed in the wind,
and the stranger came down in porch light
full of stark feature; and the driveway
became a receptacle for the sleeping debris
someone had left there, someone had made,
someone had eloped with, someone had betrayed.
MAY 2009