The tent men arrived bearing sledgehammers
and were young enough to be my sons.
After rolling out the canvas, they drove rods
into the earth, heaving and grunting, with blow after blow.
When they raised the center pole, the tent went up,
with tightening ropes, and I felt my heart accelerate,
my heart that is nothing but a specialized nerve,
which my mind feeds off.
Someday, nature’s undertakers—
beetles, maggots, and bottle flies—will carry it
toward the sun. Tomorrow, after the tent is gone,
a crew will remove the damaged sod,
aerate what’s underneath, and apply a topdressing
of new sandy soil. Like musical notes or forms
of rock, everything will be forgotten.