Alone at night
in the wet citythe country's wit
is not memorable.The wind has blown
all the trees downbut these anxieties
remain erect, beingthe heart's deliberate
chambers of hurtand fear whether
from a green apartmentseeming diamonds or
from an airlinerseeming fields. It's
not simple or tidythough in rows of
rows and numbered;the literal drifts
colorfully andthe hair is combed
with bridges, allcompromises leap
to stardom and lights.If alone I am
able to love it,the serious voices,
the panic of jobs,it is sweet to me.
Far from burgeoningverdure, the hard way
in this street.