I do hope now, my dear fellow, . . . that, in my presence at least, you will throw out nothing to the prejudices of the sons of the Puritans.

—The Confidence-Man

The slug crawling
across the kitchen floor
had purpose and benediction,

like Augustine in his own
corrupt path
toward grace. The trail led

to the Empty Quarter,
avant-garde capital,
even now, of stagnant

philosophers. The wind
was pregnant,
the birches shuddering

in green expectation.
Let them arrive at an
unexpected address,

all fallen things.