I wake dreaming of Rome

I wake dreaming of Rome

and find my body
in another place.

and find my body
in another place.

Left ear:  hum of something
not quite electric.

Michigan traffic unchained
from its

source.  Right ear:
whatever the power plant

is doing with coal
and water.

Low turbine hum.
River intake, river spill.

The GM plant 30 acres
of concrete.  My

American piazza, no church,
demolition is progress.

Cardinal now on the
back lawn digging

for grubs—the lawn is rife
with them

these perfect spring
mornings, it is impossible

to see them, they curl
low in the earth like albino

fingers.  Spill of lint
from the eaves

where the sparrows have
nested, hawk’s nest

high in that lot left unzoned
by the city so there is

still some faint trace of
openness, reciprocity,

in the clutch of air tiered
beside the river.

Two blocks over, a Kawasaki,
early morning, tests

the south lane’s theory
of deliverance with

its laser blast of speed, MLK
to the interstate.

The sound comes in waves
as if from the edge of

the universe.  It expands,
contracts.  Spirals,

tilts.  Tower of blood,
antenna of longing and

nerve and ear, I
dress myself in its ivory gauze.

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