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.