Maybe the sperm lugged it along from the dim past 

when it crashed into the egg. What had gone wrong, 

what switch switched at the least opportune moment? 

What moment in my childhood was the final, unbearable 

one? Which breeze blowing the sprayer chemicals back 

in my face? I kept on living forever until it was too late 

for that. Last night we left the window open 

and Wally the cat spent the night, apparently, watching 

what he wanted but could never have. 

We with our big bodies hugged the bed, sleeping 

though the news we wanted to refuse, anyway. 

Wouldn’t we have murdered in our minds 

the Syrian government troops, wouldn’t we have yelled 

at the kids who painted graffiti on the bridge? 

But Wally said why howl at the moths on the screen? 

Why not just remain wakeful to the inscrutableness 

of spring’s  open window? He didn’t really say this. 

The overhead fan was turning and I couldn’t hear 

what he said. My mind was on a little train. 

I was eating my lunch on the train, spilling onions 

from my sandwich. I had a banana, too. No, a big yellow 

bus I mistook for a banana. And the onions, 

something not quite right, oh yes, it was the world 

coming back to me. The school bus rumbling 

on our brick street, full of kids who don’t yet know

how long the past will last as their bodies grow.