We all sensed we were in it, but didn’t know why.
I suspected it was about ethics, but each week
seemed as much a test in coping—the artistry
                                                                                        of partial views.
But if so, who’d been scripted
as the control group? Was it us, wilting
for all to see in the humid city, so many tulips
crushed into a pewter vase—
                                                                        or was it others,
in the suburbs, who kept to their cars and tended
to despair apart, in private, where no one
would suspect them of sorrow until they’d already
moved on?
                             The study continues: the keeping
of museums, of dictionaries with our best words.
A wild faith that someone will want to see
what we have made.


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