revision

Crime Scene

A cordon of yellow tape

hums something low in a stiff

breeze down from Saginaw Bay

cold spring wind that scatters

empty evidence markers

the length of Miller Road

Dupont Street alive with eddies

uncapped and droning

Tennyson and Bishop, even Thackeray

lost for words this morning

as I work my way through

another pallet of bottled water

poets urgent as box kites on

blue sky at a crime scene

easing my truck past

the houses of the common

now abandoned on Whitman

transcendence, surely

for the faithful over on Emerson.