O Miselle Passer!

Who now goes down that shadowy road
from which they say no one returns.
—Catullus 3

Gratingly smooth
flute and guitar,

announcements about bags
and items left by the unknown,

British-tinged accounts
of the same stories

in today’s Times,
staggering estimates

of this year’s cost of war,
prohibitions on smoking,

your cooperation,
passenger Edward Cho

and Agent Ashanti, 3221,
a potential cease-fire

in Gaza, Oprah’s body,
and just when you thought

it was piped in for people
too nervous and tired

to do anything but write in
Agent Ashanti, 3221, rush,

a geriatric script
on a folded knee,

a sparrow hops down the aisle
of empty blue plastic seats,

to which they say
everyone returns.

Red Tide

A big plastic plant sits in this room.
Outside the ocean runs through its scales.
Inside the ocean fish dart around
in theirs like random knights on the verge
of colliding, before they swerve to different
angles in an extra linear world
that is (theoretically) comforting
in its bounded lack of boundaries.
Time would be the opposite. If it
existed (as the ocean must) it would
go on forever. You could cut it as many
times as the market indicates. Divers-
ify. Fill it with plastic algae to feed
the valiant fishes floating up to shore.