It starts with the steady
daily comfort
of cars—
hundreds
of them glinting, perhaps
thousands, in
far light. All
so similar, all parked
strangers' cars,
ordered in penitent
columns and hugging
every serviceable curb in sight.
A sweet constancy—
quite unlike that
of the stars
burning in their
fixed points
out in the country—
whose cloyingness
is tempered
by the salty indeterminacy
as to
which cars, specifically, on
any given morning.
