This is not the Roman Campagna.
Arcadian shepherds are absent.
The myths here are Icelandic sagas

The face is featureless, 
As though bound in tight gauze, 
And therefore presents a mien 

It is true, it is true
Sing the whippoorwills slightly off-key
In the small city park at night.

I stare out the plate glass window
At sky over the Boston Common
Where seagulls coast past

But suppose, Irina, you find yourself asking:
What is the word for window?
And a voice, your own or someone else's, replies

“Nebraska and Oklahoma have the longest contiguous border
Of any two states,” you announce.
Your hair stands up in corkscrews