The storm is over; too bad, I say.
At least storms are clear
about their dangerous intent.
Ordinary days are what I fear,
the sneaky speed
with which noon arrives, the sun
shining while a government darkens
a decade, or a man
falls out of love. I fear the solace
of repetition, a withheld slap in the face.
Someone is singing
in Portugal. Here the mockingbird
is a crow and a grackle, then a cat.
So many things
happening at once. If I decide
to turn over my desk, go privately wild,
trash the house,
no one across town will know.
I must insist how disturbing this is–
of going public, of being a fool.