Memory interests no part
of my body. I see an end
to uncertainty, people at their scripts
line by line. You, for example,
will be the thunderstorm
rattling my window frame,
basketing our afternoons. And not
just us, but everyone will undress
at first sight and weave vast
conversations with word
on fibrous word; an entire
net of openings. Even
the mailwoman will call out
my name far from my apartment.
The scent of gasoline will lift
from the pavement and this town
will run on nerve, people
gathering like crows in the oaks,
conglomerate impulse in pursuit
of itself, or pulse after pulse.
And back of us, legs dangling
from the old unused trestle above the river
that will have been preserved,
the early sun clearing its light
through the alders, then
with its loudspeaker saying,
"Excuse me, ecstasy will be starting
in a few minutes, please, would
you please take your seats?"