Why We Do It

Fall 2005

Why We Do It

To see you leave, I keep my compass in my eyes.
I string the scarf you left around my bed like garland.
To feed the army, you chop and char the trees.
You provoke her beehive with a birch branch.
To recognize the bridge, she farms beneath its roadbed.
She informs the monk that she believes in him and his.
To standardize the slang, he deafens the population.
He scares it into the drawers of an antique desk.
To treat the latest blight, it meets the forebears.
It stocks rifles and brown paper for our motorcade.
To rise before twilight, we savor Ackerman’s cherry tobacco.
We rely on the mail for your private speculation.
To keep them out of the street, you run their dogs.
You draw your plans on ninety-pound vellum.
To prophesy the weather, they telephone Poland.
They brush back embarrassment from their bald and yellow heads.