out in the snowchairs, the lawn
a dark green and petulant, rewinding
other reasons and the premonitions
how convenient,
standing at 12:30 from the
platform and the yellow paint; soon there
came a noise, window frost out in the boston
irrelevance and the sirens were
howling. The girl with
the forest in her iris opens
in the cathedral, and said
we are all prophets, but she is
exaggerating