Poetry

Once again the land was alone
with me. The hills were humped and low.

If only they wouldn’t leave us so alone.
At the fair, and farther out, in the arcades,
in arcadia—

Finally there’s someone I might
and have and could one day 
want again, or tarry—

Yesterday I shared a cab with a priest
who said it was a fine day to ride cross town 

If you leaned over
the peeling window ledge,
one tower of Notre Dame

That hazy, faintly discernible glow,
already half erased,
lodged in the corners of the night