The disc of purple coloring our winter’s
rushed hours, Capital’s stalking light

turning shadow-bars across uniform widow
faces, like bracings about the tooth,

or in the jaw,

I half-studied my Hesiod listening to car
commercials on that talkful radio,

watching our children learn to act,

filming bright, new, select
caught outfits on bodies rounding up,

squared out, the open life of speech my
throat would not attempt,

or even take down, for a trying taste.