From The Roof

This wild night, gathering the washing as if it were flowers

          animal vines twisting over the line and

          slapping my face lightly, soundless merriment

          in the gesticulations of shirtsleeves,

I recall out of my joy a night of misery

walking in the dark and the wind over broken earth,

          halfmade foundations and unfinished

          drainage trenches and the spaced-out

                    circles of glaring light

          marking streets that were to be

walking with you but so far from you,

and now alone in October's

first decision towards winter, so close to you—

          my arms full of playful rebellious linen, a freighter

          going down-river two blocks away, outward bound,

          the green wolf-eyes of the Harborside Terminal

                    glittering on the Jersey shore,

and a train somewhere under ground bringing you towards me

to our new living-place from which we can see

a river and its traffic (the Hudson and the

hidden river, who can say which it is we see, we see

something of both.  Or who can say

the crippled broom-vendor yesterday, who passed

just as we needed a new broom, was not

one of the Hidden Ones?)

          Crates of fruit are unloading

          across the street on the cobbles,

          and a brazier flaring

          to warm the men and burn trash.  He wished us

luck when we bought the broom.  But not luck

brought us here.  By design

clean air and cold wind polish

the river lights, by design

we are to live now in a new place.