Someone’s just failed to blow up the grid
as a helicopter clatters, looking for Kathy.
America discovered, as the song decreed,
though beneath the seal-slick ease of scorn,
there is a shame — of what, we’re hardly sure.
A violence that seems somehow our fault,
just shy of animal and surest proof
of something desperate, bored, and true.
It’s not exactly war; attrition might come close.
Plot pursues us. We choose our calamities
with care and like to come to right conclusions
about things. While in secluded gardens,
spring grows jessamine, poppy, and wild rose.
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