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.
