POEMS
AN URBAN CONVALESCENCE
Out for a walk, after a week
in
bed,
I find them tearing up part of my block
And, chilled through, lonely and dazed, I join the dozen
In
meek attitudes, watching a huge crane
Fumble luxuriously in the filth of years.
Her jaws dribble rubble. An old man
Laughs and curses in her brain,
Bringing to mind the close of
The White Goddess.
As
usual in New York, everything
is
torn down
Before you have had time to care for it.
Head bowed now, at the shrine of noise, I try to recall
What building stood here. Was there a building at all?
I have lived on
this
same street for a decade.
Wait. Yes. Vaguely a presence rises
Some five floors high, of shabby stone
-Or am I confusing it with another one
In
another part of town, or of the world?–
And over its lintel into focus vaguely
Misted with blood (my eyes are shut)
A single garland sways, stone fruit, stone leaves,
Which years of grit had etched until it thrust
Roots down, even into the poor soil of my seeing.
When did the garland become part of me?
I ask myself, amused almost.
Then shiver once from head to toe,
