Cruising these residential Sunday
   streets in dry August sunlight:
what offends us is the sanities:
the houses in pedantic rows, like planted 
sanitary trees, assert
levelness of surface like a rebuke
to the dent in our car door.
No shouting here, or 
shatter of glass; nothing more abrupt 
than the rational whine of a power mover 
cutting a straight swath in the discouraged grass.

But though the driveways neatly
sidestep hysteria
by being even,the roofs all display
the same slant of avoidance to the hot sky,
certain things:
the smell of spilt oil a faint
sickness lingering in the garages,
a splash of paint on brick as surprising as a bruise,
a plastic hose pointed in a vicious
coil; even the too fixed stare of the wide windows

give momentary access to
the landscape behind or under
the future cracks in the plaster
when the houses, capsize, will slide
obliquely into the clay seas, gradual as a glacier 
that right now nobody notices.

That is where the City Planners
with the insane faces of political conspirators 
are scattered over unsurveyed
territories, concealed from
 each other,
each in his own private blizzard;

guessing directions, they sketch 
transitory lines rigid as wooden borders
on a wall in the white vanishing air

tracing the panic of suburb
order in a bland madness of snows

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