Answer: I would dump it.
She lost her husband. It was time.
The more blurry it’s gonna be, the great complicator
takes us all into account.
I don’t know what this is, remnant.
You won’t get there forever.
Decades ago, after the dogs inspected it
it became part of their repertory.
. . . Comes in and ankles around like
he owned the place (which he did, in a sense).
Fast action on their part drew her on.
This wasn’t morning. It was more like
a week from now. I’ll be on your side, searching
for what we both know is there: our crumbling infrastructure.
You stay out of it.
You’ve got to be kidding me. Your pill, he urged.
Have a wild breakfast,
eyed and mulled. There you go, passionate
as a song. I mean, that’s what he told us to say.
The trees seem to agree.
—John Ashbery (1927-2017)
