decrescendo

    
  people sulk on the subway.
  they know their stop by pulse,
  and wipe their foreheads—
  lightbulb paintpeel—
  it’s their year,
  it’s not their ambered moment
  the part or, absolute,
  not having to gaze
  or to be now.
  here is me
  on the bus with a baguette,
  an actor’s list of verbs,
  all spectacular
  and indigo
  and running,
  only calling you up hot
  mornings to let you hear
  the bird on your stoop
  and erase my
  desire to
  sculpt and archeologize,
  commuter galleries,
  cars arranged in lines,
  kids berry-stained
  (and running).
  people sulk on the subway,
  retie their shoelaces,
  readjust the world
  and fall asleep.