I cannot say what made them reappear.
But I’ll climb in and clatter down the street
pedalling my low-slung fire truck: will steer
down sleek white sidewalks, glittering cars neat
brushed and purring lawns beside me, here,
right, bump, to the flagpole where the Mommies meet.
Flushed full of wind the flag seems not to stir:
We never guessed how beautiful you were.

When thinking traps an era in a dewdrop—
liquid gray-blue TV light and shy
sweet gropings in soft silence you must stop
and sigh for birthday party girls gone by
in crumpled polka dots and ribbons; rev her up,
no brake—too late—you see that sky?
That great pink-orange dome of city light
behind us in the backwards-rushing night?

Well yes okay, that fire truck’s no urn.
But I gaze nonetheless at classical time.
Years sailed grandly, once; now black tires bur ...

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