The tupelo outside my window turns red and yellow behind pink blinds.
If I were a painter I would paint only windows.
Iím thinking of the creamy stars I could see
from my childhood bedroom, behind the homespun curtains.
All memory is fiction.
It has happened before, that the stars
were occluded, the fogs were brown. In the Middle Ages
ice advanced into the civilized countries.
Iím thinking of migrations, changes in the weather, of the woman
on the bus yesterday, enunciating loudly, a formal
declaration, how she was no longer obligated
for so-and-soís debts,
black plastic garbage bags surrounding her demurely.
The driver said youíre upsetting me and everyone else. Get off.
And she did, in a huff, gathering her estate.
Once there was a bay tree outside the window.
My neighbor tried to kill it, chiseling at the roots.
Then he died, old Roy. Iím thinking how everything changes.