With little hope of sleep, but no talent

for vigilance, I slid ever closer

to the edge of what our elders were pleased

to call “candy mind,” where assumptions

flatten out into a kind of perfect

generosity. Night stuck blue stickers

on the schoolhouse door. Servants

taught most of the lessons, candlelight

and needlecraft chief among them.

My delayed acceptance of peace wasn’t

very inspired—you could hear that

in my voice I think, in the village song I sang

for the elders and their angels. I’ve got

a lot of ground to cover. The anger

either makes itself scarce or rears up right

here in front of everybody. So long

as the ancient bridge still stretches across

the bay, permitting commerce east to west

on even numbered days and west to east

on odd—and there’s no reason to believe

that will change—then all our dire schemes, all

the pros and cons we’ve batted back and forth

in sultry basements can’t amount to anything

more authentic than a cheap mystery

splayed in the sun on a diplomat’s chaise.

I can’t, or won’t, recall my Habermas.

My legs gave way—“Fear the man who fears not

to kneel”—and I glowed there on stage

until the curtain fell. I sure have seen

a lot of faces. Mail from sailors still gets through

but that’s not the only factor, I know.

The redeveloped areas have brought in ringers

so attentive, so skilled in denial

of service, our monopolies seem certain

to wither in wet circles. The children

haven’t understood evenings since May

and the elders pine for less. I myself misplaced

an entire icicle in the sunrise.

The accident did in fact have significance

in that we had both eyes and bread.