Who would have thought—too much simultaneity: 
The Swan Planters hovering above the windbeaten 
Statue of the Virgin Mary who casts her gaze down 
On the Repainted Lawn Jockey, his brown face 
Spreading out over his white cap, a small rebellion 
Or, merely, an inarticulate hand overzealous
In restoring Race back to its place in God after 
Winter makes heathen the heaven of horticulture. 
This is America calling: the golden pollen of Spring 
Blinging every available sedan, stone porch, puddle, 
And satin blouse hanging from a smiling white line 
Into yellow salvation, or forgetfulness, a black dog,
Antique in its hunger for my daughter’s hand through a fence, 
My daughter, in her machine and wonder, willing
To give. It is as if every moment is praying
For whatever is above it or just outside of its grasp: the dog 
For a hand, the Lawn Jockey holding his absent lantern
Out in front of him for the Virgin whose eyes, 
No longer there, Januaried away by the blizzards, 
Salt, and wind, stutter with a brown streak