A FRAGMENT
The trees breathe in like show dogs, stiffening
Under the silver leashes of light rain
To spines. A cyclone fence that guards the moire
Embankment of the shrunken reservoir
Bristles with rain barbs, each a milk tooth, sting
Of stings, where fall began. The park's a stain,
The black paths shimmer under celophane.
It is so real. Shy ghosts of taxis sniff
And worry in the empty park streets, lost
And misted lights, and down Fifth Avenue:
The flags soak at half-staff, bloodshed and blue;
Bloodletting stripes repeating their mute riff;
Gray stars, wet Union sky of stars, crisscrossed
With petrifying folds and sparks of frost.
The rain points prick the lake and touch the drought,
The dusk blue of a sterile needletip . . .
The brightness and the light has been struck down.
IN LABOR, DREAMING
The soft street canyon was silent. In silence the new snow
Layered a rolling swell. The greatest evening
Tilted and rose against the tiny window:
Like her juggled soaking fishbowl swinging
A
wave that burst into suds. A feeler of ice,
See-through and frail, scaled the whitening lace
Of
the window-guard, now more visible,
As
if
a vine were growing its own trellis.
The warm room watched it whiten, counting the minutes.
•
I
