It is not mine, this day
of six-month-misplaced fall,
yet I cram it with my stuff
and lug it back to the harbor where
the hopeful hum with flimsy trade
and never know to call enough enough
or a spade a spade.
Wares flare in thunderlight;
crooks crawl outside to play.
They dare us all to stake our share
on a phony sun, a dashed-off prayer
to a crummy god. Their bright
rockets blast off, then plummet in the shade.
Such ships with their high haul
streak up our minds as virtue pines
and dealers cast away.

I came out in this hush,
this humble rustle of your brother's end.
I have no salve, no song,
no stained and storied quilt.
All I have is a bag of varied cares.
I set it down and listen to the shore,
the roar of things I do not understand,
the hand, the rush, the tilt
where things went wrong.