Ceci N’est Pas . . .

This is not even an apple. Or a pipe. Or a man descending from the

cloudless sky, holding an open umbrella over his head, a god almost

late for his next manifestation, where the trolleys have stopped running,

where soot settles from factory chimneys and counterfeit tears streak

a prostitute’s face. This is not me or you or the hubcap that popped off

a rear wheel in the approach to Teatown Reservation, clattering against

an ancient rock. Wobbling to a halt. What this is hums like a song,

falls silent after the blare of the test siren at the nuclear plant. Not

the cry of immigrants at a dock, their children taken away, a foreign

language scrawled on their papers, no one anyone, everyone waiting.