When Big Joan Sets Up

to break a bottle over it.

Listen how pretty, listen

for glass in nothing nearby

shattering, just morning birds

that do not wake whoever

is not sleeping. Come here

Little Birdie, come here.

No matter how great the gains

so many complaints hang—

The grass full of worms,

and still all that squawking,

like a couple talking and talking

about never talking. The chatter

of hunger, that gaudy red—