by now even the ground
deep under the ground has dried.
the grass becoming green
does not quite remember the last year,
or the year before, or the centuries
that kept passing over. all of these blades thought
that america’s grief over the ruptured
flesh of its leaders
was another wind going into the sky.
a rabbit stiffens
with hard sorrow up from the grass
and runs. well,
it is another spring and in the clouds
it is the ranging spectacle of a crowd
of congressmen accusing one another, each
moving in his own shadow against the next.