Coiled, for your eyes to see immediately
The glow of the garbage trucks
The immutable metal grind
The stereoed crash of the canister being set down.
In your eyes, this is the event:
Morning’s sounds and the ocular recognition
Blue Birds and blue birds.
Like a calico, sejant-erect, waiting for it to swoop low.
Like a basket’s wicker untaught, thrum’s trap.
Like a cataclysm, but a minor one.
You’ll see. That’s why we have the pictures.