i grew up in an off-highway town
where America meant morning

large and green-gold and small
as sand in the riverbed

of indifferent fish. my mother
no longer plays the piano.

there will be more fireworks tomorrow.
the night is just the same.

the light aphors. death mists
and twists. where silence

may be sacrilege and god said.
frogs in the drainpipe in the ditch.