名人诗歌|Back with the Quakers

You think you can handle these things：

sunlight glinting off a red Jaguar¹

honking^{2 at the old woman who has snagged}

her shopping cart on a snow rut，

or the swaggering three-piece suit who steps

outside the bank， earless to the mossy voice

at his feet asking for spare change，

but then the crunch^{3 of something， nothing really，}

under your shoea dirty comb， a pen cap

completely undoes^{4 you， and it's too much，}

too much， being balanced， considering

the complexity^{5 of all sides in one}

syntactically correct sentence.

All the driver has to say is Move it，

Lady， and you're back with the Quakers

who trained you to lie still and limp in the street.

Three days they stepped on your hair，

ground cigarettes half an inch from your nose，

while you lay there， trying to be against

violence， your fists tight as grenades

and a payload of curses between your teeth，

O woman， with a mind Picasso

could have painted， giving you many cheeks，

each one turned a different way.