Industry begins in a web of late February fog
murmur of motors and muffled fuel truck lights
house life barely known to the world
gulls are passengers on the last ice flows
early arrivals for the set up of the big show

Sometimes it’s the first morning of your life
and those early carriage days with your mother
happened to someone else in another room of heaven
the distress of maniacs and ex-loves
dead as rock

And now there is only this day
the start of morning motors along the banks of the river
and a new crop of starlings up from Mexico
the dirt of winter now settled into the family of the ground
hardly a cough yet from the houses
whole possibilities waiting in the quiet of cars