in assault from
above
comes the shrill,
punchy call of free-
migrating geese—
ricocheting off
our asphalt,
our high shelves of glass,
and our citywide
armories of bright-
angled brick.
This might be
what Taps
would sound like
were it blared
at mid-day
by amnesiac buglers:
the giddy death knell
of this rough-
drafted morning—
of today's
first, unpolished
idea of itself.
