Nice

Polite problems were once rung up
as clearance for grander scheme, as layer

of cream skimmed off scalding surface,
the rest emptied into sink. I think the problem,

one professional says, is that you are always
looking at what isn't there— what hasn't

hatched, embedded, you venture to make room
for. Holding carbon copy of proposed constellations

with back welded to floor, someone's floppy
disk rejected by discerning soft palette. Drifts

of powdered quiet tickle the nose. Rejecting
another sun-cycle of disseminating information,

listening for stamp of guarantee. Fasten straps
over snapped branches to allow mountain-melt

whisk you downstream. Where waiting rewards
no owl but stuffs morning's mouth with grisly

treats. Where waiting rewards no photographer
but scissors the time-lapse into cross-generational

paper-dolls. Waiting never worked for courtiers
brimming the court with bells and whistles,

courtyard peppered with trimmed topiaries:
a king-sized bed, a barge, a prickly throne,

each manicured reminder of the mystery—
cut short. Maneuvering with clouded step,

we discretely fold the treaty at its corners,
douse our constituencies with black coffee,

suspend across the drop a mossy bridge.
If the uprising ever succeeds, thank nothing

except the architect of superior fates, setting
the table with tremulous hands.