At night, I walked through the lit streets

Of New York, from the Gramercy Park Hotel

Up Lexington & at that hour, alone,

I stopped hearing traffic, voices, the racket

Of spring wind lifting a newspaper high

Above the lights. The streets wet,

And shining. No sounds. Once,

When I saw my son be born, I thought

How loud this world must be to him, how final.

That night, out of respect for someone missing,

I stopped listening to it.

Out of respect for someone missing,

I have to say

This isn't the whole story.

The fact is, I was still in love.

My father died, & I was still in love. I know

It's in bad taste to say it quite this way. Tell me,

How would you say it?

The story goes: wanting to be alone & wanting

The easy loneliness of travelers,

I said good-bye in an airport & flew west.

It happened otherwise.

And where I'd held her close to me,

My skin felt raw, & flayed.

Descending, I looked down at light lacquering fields

Of pale vines, & small towns, each

With a water tower; then the shadows of wings;

Then nothing.

My only advice is not to go away.

Or, go away. Most

Of my decisions have been wrong.

When I wake, I lift cold water

To my face. I close my eyes.

A body wishes to be held, & held, & what

Can you do about that?

Because there are faces I might never see again,

There are two things I want to remember

About light, & what it does to us.

Her bright, green eyes at an airport—how they widened

As if in disbelief;

And my father opening the gate: a lit, & silent

City.

MY STORY IN A LATE STYLE OF FIRE

Whenever I listen to Billie Holiday, I am reminded

That I, too, was once banished from New York City.

Not because of drugs or because I was interesting enough

For any wan, overworked patrolman to worry about—

His expression usually a great, gauzy spiderweb of bewilderment

Over his face—I was banished from New York City by a woman.

Sometimes, after we had stopped laughing, I would look

At her & see a cold note of sorrow or puzzlement go

Over her face as if someone else were there, behind it,

Not laughing at all. We were, I think, “in love.” No, I'm sure.

If my house burned down tomorrow morning, & if I & my wife

And son stood looking on at the flames, & if, then,

Someone stepped out of the crowd of bystanders

And said to me: “Didn't you once know…?” No. But if

One of the flames, rising up in the scherzo of fire, turned

All the windows blank with light, & if that flame could speak,

And if it said to me: “You loved her, didn't you?” I'd answer,

Hands in my pockets, “Yes.” And then I'd let fire & misfortune

Overwhelm my life. Sometimes, remembering those days,