Contaminated air, poisoned ground,
Infected bodies in the cemetery, and the dead
Scattered in the fields in grievous wars,

To begin with: I object to this line
of questioning. Custom holds that being

In Classical Attica it wasn't heinous,
tanned Danaan hands consigning cherubs
to the gods' protection, to die in earthen pots.

He’d been through too much for this,
the guilt that frets forgetfulness.

I see it like a movie screen:
salty green horizon, cloudy blue water.
You step, a pillar on the deck,

I’m the family Augustine. Beth trusts
Your Plato talk. Give her your confessions
About the undergraduates you do.

Once I’m sure there’s no one else around I
climb, spider-silent, toward my treehouse, held like
a saucer on fingertips in the middle limbs of the oak.

Two by Tiepolo, both depicting cages.
In one the long-nosed Punchinello stares at a tiger
in a cage mounted on large wagon wheels. In Visiting

Above the dog-eye-colored land
And town of San José
Of hot dog-fur and tin,

All bubbles travelling

In tubes, and being lights:  up down and around
 They were:  blue,  red and every man uncaught