Welcome to our treasured island
seized from the tribe
of enemy combatants
who nursed us through
the winter of 1642.

This heap of shoes.
This copper beech.
This highway butter.

This featureless cottage
about to be filled
with “genuine antiques.”

This track into milkweed
seen from the ground.

This monumental train
that thought it could
replace the barge
before it got choked out
by interstate
trying to protect
inalienable piracy.

Planes thrown down
like lightning.
Lightning thrown
like a glove.

This is not a camera
passing through
the comb-like trees.

This theory with its
problematic central arc
will be for sale
when the poem is over.

This is the end
of the bike path.

The moving sidewalk
is about to end
with the future on it
loaded with blankets
looking for a place to lie down.