Miracle's truck comes down the little avenue，

    Scott Joplin ragtime¹ strewn behind it like pearls，

    and， yes， you can feel happy

    with one piece of your heart.

    Take what's still given： in a room's rich shadow

    a woman's breasts swinging lightly as she bends.

    Early now the pearl of dusk dissolves.

    Late， you sit weighing the evening news，

    fast-food miracles， ghostly revolutions，

    the rest of your heart.