Just as Milton had to face
the problem of rain in paradise,
I have to figure out what to do with you.

The dog is seated by the victrola
listening, head cocked

to the voice of his master

Everything is fine—
the first bits of sun are on
the yellow flowers behind the low wall,

This is the only reality, wrote Sartre,
this public garden and its gravel paths
dappled with sunlight

God bless their children and their powder-blue suits.

Suddenly, you were planting some yellow petunias
outside in the garden,

The one resting now on a plant stem
somewhere deep in the vine-hung
interior of South America

Two muscle men stand face to face
in a large field and begin an Olympic insult contest.

The sky is blue and gold like a Swedish flag

In fact, I start to wonder if what we have now
is really two poems, or three, or four,
or possibly none.

hello is my laundry ready