after Wordsworth

Pilgrim’s inside the frame here and guesses
she’s liked it that way. If nuns fret not
in their narrow cells, why then should she?
Her cot has, after all, got this very nice mattress
and custom duvet. But under the green hum
of the all-night lights she—almost—makes out
some other sound. A break in the rhythm,
a knock in the engine of warm rocking dark
(for the lights in their way do emit darkness)
—the men on their knees in the dirt
of the park she jogs in, a Food Not Bombs T-shirt,
a friend’s son’s legs lost in Iraq—Iraq?
What is Iraq doing in here? She’s screwed.
Something is knocking. The size of a world.