That was the promise, a triumph
Of the soul. I still believe that. The
Waters are delinquent, the rivers
Unfold and unfold. A heron’s unreadable

Ink, the coast of whatever rearrangement
Happened to us in our bright petal
Coats hung around the half-light of the
Stars. A hand so deliberate, an energy,

A drum. Is this the end of your empire,
Or is it just the world, coming as it is?
What I want from this town is for you
To have joy, the evergreens of your little

Floral shop. The sky unrolls onto a vast
Expanse of spring dirt, and you go on sparkling.