Beyond investigation, end-of-winter nights
unroll the black counterpane of sky.
What giant beanpole can reach from there to here?
Citizens exit their workplaces, drive away
down every street and enter the famous homes
fossilized with laziness and the many
America ideas about fun. Moonlight
ducks inside the kitchen window
and rinses out the dishes. "Sweetheart,
you washed up already!" A cargo
                                 of kissing ensues.
Each arc of breath diagrams itself
into a calendar year. Each soul
tailors itself to a sentence line. Outside,
the season has begun with a marble
radiance of wisteria reclining
on the tarpaper roof of the shed.
How easily it blooms
out of a gulf of dead sticks,
cool, sweet, impervious spring.