Out of love we fall ten times a day,
out of the marrow, out of luck,
out back into distractions and joys we rip off from prey,

The Cubans are vaccinating anything
live they can find and burning the rest.
My childhood pours gasoline over the toppled cows and pigs,

Right on schedule, one century behind 
The little bird on William Wordsworth’s cuckoo clock 
Emerged from Time Itself, a home, to cuckoo.