Voices from a cloud,
a few gods,
two or three, insistent!
—some wrong visited on them, a crowd

of squabblers coming through the mist.
The kitchen’s
nearly dark. The cord’s
curlicued like a pig’s tail. You bend your head and listen

to their reports,
to their snorts
and justifications and you can make out—
like birds following each other in the sky—some words

of Walter Cronkite in the living room.