While the west whisks by, blurred and blushing,
we wait for what we can’t manufacture, the
moon, the tides,
norepinephrine, the watch.
Nobody worries over pie-tins and
porch-lights, broken keels, struggles with helmets;
we press greasy faces to flowing glass,
gasping like rheumatic fevers “why
no sparrow, mother?
why still mistake?”