Everyone looks over a shoulder

            one sound louder than the other

across a lawn. Makeshift noise, they are

noises that mean

            except when they fight it out.

No one looks up at the helicopter

            back

            and

            forth

its own language buzzing in patterns.

Everyone looks over a shoulder

twists in a seat, cranes a neck to see

            vibrations compete.

Small corners amplify.

A crowd squeals, a crowd claps,

silent bubble merry-go-round

sun-powered still goes, a stillness

among a trebling throng.

When he says, she’s a professor,

she says she’s the meditator.

When he says, she’s a teacher,

she says she’s the writer.

When we walk, we run. When we run,

we fly. When we fly, we find cannons

up cobblestone inclines where boat people

live where oyster shuckers work where militia

and prisoners held the fort down held the foe

at bay held the hand once reticent, now close,

now closing in.

The sun comes out in time for it to set.

The buildings made of glass glow at the southernmost tip.