You could compose your tome
about anything, about how you wish
models could achieve the shape
of your wife caught from the side
as she readies herself for bed, beauty
without pretense. You could
compose your tome about the field
across the road, where one could
imagine a labyrinthian park
leading to a hidden lagoon. You could
speak about the sunrise or the moon.
Here, in this place, now-light that greets
you each morning as a gallery opened
exclusively for you. Instead you linger
on some slight that happened so long ago
US senators had not been born. A kiss
only unconceived CEOs were there for.
A pond gone dry. A barge decommissioned.
A river that cleansed itself of a century
of chemicals. Yet in song you still draw
it and yourself, as perpetually toxic.