Not Rome

How the car radio carols pushed against the long dusk

and the bumpers of clouds glowed teacup gold—

The doll's leg twisted and out it popped,

exquisite souvenir. Long and unfolded, I was

dense with signs,

on offer, is there any point to the gift

of these woven bolts of consciousness?

Here, says one to the other, Here I am—

Yes there you are. But that is no cause

to disarrange the weather map, for violent elbowing

of all that has been patterned aside.

If we were giants who played with little humans

and their little toys, then—

—April Bernard