EPIPHANY
Friday commuters in a slow-
moving sawtooth against the
bright stripe of ocean
its stippled plats a shifting
map to Asia
beneath the flattened
sun
and so this broken day
casts its last moment: dusk
and thoughts of home, supper,
children - the straight bore of the heart
before stars, purer than the wall-
eyed lamps that swarm
directionless, throw their glassy chains
over everything as if to say
this must stay, this
must perish.
Glen Vecchione
