This poem is called "Big Mood Swing."
"For the last few weeks, I haven't refused any, not
a single feeling--
not one.
I haven't failed to bow toward each for hours,
to speak enormously with each for at least
the minimum minutes.
And didn't my feelings do the same in return?
Wasn't it a tender and brotherly translation?
I wore the sweater my father gave me.
Weeping, I stood near the cargo hangars
daydreaming a woman, her skin, her pale arms bare,
her cool surprising skin at the beginning
of spring, its zealous style.
So many feelings, and as usual, sometimes,
too many, and many confusions.
I danced as ecstatic and hopeful as a cartoon, or afraid,
some nights worried I might fail.
But the alarm always rang, so I woke in time
to hate a plastic bag caught in the crown
of a poplar, this bag that refused
to be torn apart by wind.
It was my anger the bag fought, my resentment
against the black and red Stop and Shop lettering,
the weekly meat and poultry special,
the sober photos of unsuspecting children
who'd been lost or stolen.
I couldn't exempt myself or skip out and act derelict.
But because it smelled like April, April in Chile,
there were pears to taste again.
In the streets, I saw sunlight on the smoked glass
of limousines, the rivalry of a lesser sun with greater.
And there were sudden showers, soundless knives,
even a fireman wearing fur, his singing.
Or was that singeing?
And after all that, I still can't tell you who I am,
though I can imagine his greeting,
and how it sounds much as these words would
if they were whispered by two people exchanging rings
before they turned to the crowd, and over the mortgaged
green and muddy fields, waved their hands."
That's a wedding of some sort.