Republic
       

Again the chorus gathers on the stage.
            Again again because what does not tend
            toward repetition, in hopes of prolonging its stay?

Each day begins by promising a clear-cut expedition, but
            by evening I find myself perplexed, unsure of what
            meaning means, or why meanness—which means

differently—so easily enters the heart
            but takes a lifetime to root out. Finite
            infinitives: to sail, to sing, to sigh. If I seem to be

fascinated by trains, it is because I was born
            on a desert planet where there were none, oh to speed
            through evergreens in search of a focal point . . .

We assemble from our succession of voyages history—
            as in the reenactment, in which each god chooses a side.
            Here in our country, yesterday's wordless communiqué

consisted of merely one siren, either it warned
            of imminent airstrike or it hinted at a less radical
            change of pace, as when the flow of traffic stops

and you know it is safe to proceed, tethered
            to whichever plan has been assigned to you. But if only
            improvisation were permitted I could finally give my soliloquy and then

Again the moonlight filters through the sieve
            of limbs. Again the passengers fall asleep in their
            bunks on the bullet train, which plays its part

in shuttling us from one place to the next. How
            like models of courage they must have been—
            the gods who, being gods, had so little to lose.

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Copyright © 2020 Matt Morton All rights reserved
from Improvisation Without Accompaniment
BOA Editions
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission