Fall 2006 • Vol. XXVIII No. 4 PoetryOctober 1, 2006 |


And I look up. But it's a strangeron a cell phone. A chiming rush of words, her are you sure?and no, don't tell me that. I'm back to unlockingthe car. Day like any other. Because one must look away. She'swhispering emphatically everything about last night, what sheremembers slowed to a standstill right there on the sidewalk. I fixon a robin somewhere, a half-hearted che er ily—he stops, starts—che er ily.He's lost the middle kingdom of his song. She's almostcrying. She can't believe anything some voice through no wire at allis telling her. A camera on me, you'd see exactlyanyone, completely oblivious, doggedly clicking taut the seat belt,adjusting the rearview mirror. What is private in publicidles there, invisible. O worm under the rose. How old is this rule?Honor the first to know.

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