The other way around leaves one
feeling rather circular. They’re so French

they even understand democracy in America.
Calming sunshine, a thin film of dust

on drinking glasses, newly-envisioned carports.
Could one’s horn be heard amid the din

of our coerced demurrals? That’s your war.
Whodunnit has never been so dull a question.

Now, a car passing our log cabin
obliterates the Wilderness Theory, leaving

in its wake time to consider investing
in that quill pen and inkwell set. You can’t

at every circumstantial turn privilege
exchange, hook a few reasonably sized

fish, talk about a bad day to storm
the capital, and expect the American Epiphany

you’ve been eyeing with such retro-earnestness
to rear its head: action exposes intent; not

to care a straw nourishes the viper
nestled in your lap. One wants to

kick back, relax, and witness unlimited growth
in all directions. Exponentially,

it’s about claiming one’s legroom. Rugged
individualism—a willingness to give up

the easement. Some of us floozies
actually enjoy the nomenclature.

Is the sensation of doing business
with a stream of disembodied voices

akin to the intonation of a bored chorus
of thirteen-year-old girls? You realize

you can work backwards, of course?
A set of perfectly measured crutches.

The pitted gravel path to the mailbox.
Nothing else of interest propping up

the novel’s opening chapter. Ascending
another hundred feet, the balloon’s

luminosity begins to dissipate.
Undeterred, geese continue southward.