253

The facade of the bar is
In red brick, darker over
The wide, barred windows,
Paler where it meets the
Distressed tarmacadam of its
Front. Cigarette butts lie in
The grass and weeds where
The rain has soaked them
Brown and dark and fragile.
A yellow hydrant punctuates
The beige concrete of the
Sidewalk. Dead leaves drift
Across the doorway and in
The moist and febrile air.
The door is painted brown
And marked with a plaque
That reads PRIVATE CLUB in
Red and above a gold 284.
A silent air-con unit and a
Surveillance camera pose
At the left of it. Over the door
A white crescent awning with
Lettering in crimson that
Reads EAST SIDE CARDINALS
And the image of a yellow bat
On which two cardinals sit.
Behind the iron grating of
The window, three vacant neons:
Miller Lite, Budweiser, Pabst.
The light has left them and hangs
Before them in its first form.

252

In the lee of an aged
Birch where milkweed and
Clover have flattened in
From the wind and rain,
Feet from the iron grate
Of a storm drain gorged
With leaves and a curb
Where paper and plastic
Have come to rest, lie
Fifty or so mushrooms
In vanilla and coral and
Ochre and chole and bone.
They are broken white in
Places and elsewhere wet
And dark and corrugated
As labia in corona, some
Striped as cockleshells and
Others inglorious and dun.
Among the largest are some
Wounded, fibrous insides
Breathing of the pale air.

They congregate where
The wind is soft and the
Sky relents of its silent
Iterations. The afternoon
Is in descent : earth runs
To sleep, and so too these
Slight and tawny children.

251

At all intersections the lights
Hang empty, their casings
Swinging out upon the breeze.
Cars make provisional moves
In the space beneath them,
Each junction a negotiation.
The neighbourhoods resound
With the bellowing of solitary
Fire engines. Street signs and
Political hoardings lie where
They have fallen in the fallen
Leaves, tangle of sodden brush
And torn treelimb. By the side
Of the road the plants lie flat.
Power gone from here to
Shippan and the drab sound :
Families gather before their
Lightless corner stores and
Wait. North of the junction
The interstate's bland thunder,
South a raised section of the
New Haven line, where for
Two days a train of carriages
Have lain idle in their dark.

250

He sits below a faded brown
Oil painting of Japanese courtesans,
Alongside a minuscule portrait of
A mustachioed viellard framed in
Etched and golden wood. The chair
Is angled awkwardly into the space
Between a console and several
Canvases, one of which is mounted
On an easel throwing an abrupt
Shadow. His legs are held half
Under the seat, as if he were afraid
Of kicking them. On the console
Behind his inclined head a bouquet
Of flowers inside a funnel of gauze.
His face is ironic and pale and is as
Mustachioed as that in the portrait.
He holds a thin cane languidly in
One hand, and the tip rests lightly
On the fawn pile of the carpet.

249

A workman in the white
Cage of a basket crane
With navy overalls and
Cold yellow braces leans
Into the glowing crown of
An acacia tree. He has gold
Shivering in his hands,
And he trails it over the
Small, tender growths like
A weave of gossamer. Wind
Rattles the cage and he
Touches his hat and reaches
For a junction of the branches.
Automobiles are pale shapes
That move in the lenses
Of his large black sunglasses.
He returns to the earth and
The tree is dressed in a
Thousand particles of light.
The folded crane reposes,
Dull white and bleached:
Radius, ulna, humerus.

248

The maple in front of the
Drugstore is in colour,
Gold as blood and green as
Fire. Along the roadside
Stell chairs have fallen
Over in the wind. From
A doorway a piano is
Let sound by some soft
Hand. The televisions are
On in all the morning bars.
Doves tumble overhead.
Some stand at the corner
And smoke cigarettes : it
Is eleven o'clock Tuesday.
Old light in an old world.

247

What is there to speak of
If not to speak of love?
When the last of it has
Passed, true then to say
The motion has worn in,
No more will come, and
We will sing our orphan
World to sleep. O caravan!

A crowded train, night
Turning across itself in
The glass, the bare light
Passes of a place that
Is already gone. An end
To empire and to truth.
A gentleman that stands
Raging to nobody in the
Space between two doors.
Lights that pass and lights
That do not pass. Fugue.

Come here while I embrace
You, emergency!

246

Raindrops fall into the
Track of an old pathway,
Where pools of water
The colour of wheat
Accommodate them. Fall,
Softbodies and clarity!
Our earth is of a kind.
You cannot be certain
That the mobile of heaven
Hold or that love will
Save but certain that
The earth is all for you,
Where you find your end
And blow to fragments.
I have seen them hold,
And still cannot attest.
The quiet love that calls
Their slightness down
Is sure. And yet, no more.
The earth is good tonight
In its solitary music.

245

It was far from the
Noise and from the lights
Of the house, where the
Apples had begun to fall

I was speaking, some words
I do not remember, and
You were there, dressed in
The fire of your age.

It was a fine gathering,
The windows and doors flung
Wide, and a soft glow of lamps.
They had spoken to me of you.

Stars! How the future captures us—
I could not know then how.