One Connecticut

The dinosaur prints cannot calibrate their novelty.

Reservoir three inches low.

Thirty miles as a rule

to a place that is not Connecticut.

Blockish land of attributed propriety!

A Greek girl I really loved has moved to Iowa.

Hell: history, geology.

The nutmegs in the stories grew

in the tropics. Bully for glaciers.

The maple branches fashion

a brittle arbor too seldom lush.

Somehow the devices held together.

Lawnmowers. Stage lights

at the high school. Vaccines that forestalled

I know not what.

Connecticut lays itself at the feet of my hatred.

The accent the Ischians use when not among themselves

does not point to but is Connecticut.

Red by oak. Blue by May. White by sailcloth

jacketed on the booms in the marinas.

As it does not go on forever

Connecticut warrants heated response.

Moderate rivers blacken the spillways,

and the labels of the green and dun bottles

are affixed in an album withheld from me.

Swan. Nuthatch. Birdwatcher.

Connecticut may be notional.

Fourth week in August, by the train tracks,

sumac growing in crack in asphalt

extends branch through chain-link fence.

White shingles/black shutters, stone wall.

The helicopter factory.

Consideration of blood will lend our spirits weight

in the absence of a satisfactory founding myth.

The gutshot cities sag.

The ponds crack like china. I have

passed my days in the dread of errands.