I looked out over the cool rising night,
Its soft froth of lamplights and scrubbed out stars
Tumbling out over the blue tub, mind’s sky,
Cash-only bars, evening everlasting,
Triumphant Brooklyn barely visible
Tucked behind the East River like the hem
Let out of an iridescent dress culled
To continue being the verse, the harm,
The wine-tonned mouth swollen with the last words
Of Spring or April or Night or The Plain
Sense of Things, the worlds in it burning, ways
Of I am now burning, feeling the Bern
In the back of a cab without being burned,
Then being burned. I wonder what I learned.