There’s a tree beside my apartment building
that dies early every August, before anything else,
& sometimes a dollhouse
on the curb by the garbage;
an ugly dollhouse, with beautiful windows,
no: not glass but a good imitation—
The way certain murderers
can blend in with the crowd:
unremarkable among faces in the group photo,
or speeding by in cars as I cross the Pulaski Bridge,
or behind me in the revolving door,
I in one glass chamber & they in the other—
like the Nazi in the movie fleeing a beautiful country
to retrieve his stash of diamonds: crossing a river,
he’s disguised as a hooded woman, a peasant.
Above the boat, other migrations:
birds, monarch butterflies.
As though nothing stationary could survive.
A monsoon of rain,
the elements moving toward his house,
& the window the monarchs cling to,
in the monsoon—