The Possum and the Sycamore

​Here is a light. It shines on--
No, it shines in, or through, or
With, or carries the valise of
Every atom through the corridor.

The nurse feeds, the teacher engages,
The nanny folds the sheets, 
Mother holds their hands, father
Tells them stand in line, the streets

Are filled with them, filing along,
There is no nurse or teacher, nanny,
Mother or father, only a sun
Or moon blurry, uncanny,

But not them either, because
The light is there, but—here--
But—at any rate, it blazes
Or simmers into dimness, mere

Smokiness, as you twiddle with
The knob: and let the current flow,
Walk into the office, strike 
The desk. “This is to let you know:

“The trucks will travel the straightest
Route, we’ll employ a clean accountant,
The computers will zip, the ionized
Air will clear the mood of the diffident.”

And the continent with lines of light
Will shine from mountain to shore,
The possum will trace its way, 
And silence will soak the sycamore.