Sunday Alone In A Fifth Floor Apartment, Cambridge, Massachusetts

The Globe at the door, a jaunt

to the square for the Sunday Times.

Later the path you made has healed,

anyone may use it. A good day

for a fire. Fast clouds tug

their moorings of rain, bent

like a wet field in the wind.

It's almost dusk when you look out,

the sun falling, visible

beneath the curds of clouds.

Open the window. It's like leaving

the door to the shower stall open.

A draft and a few bars

from the Linz Symphony wend

in, like an exact crack in a damp wall

of white noise, the dial tone, the breathing

of sleepers, the dub-dub of a car's left

tires smattering the manhole cover

on Ware St. The music of others

is almost enough, but you can put on

a record to be sure, to make you want

to dance late in the day

in a light that seems to come from inside

the cloud bellies, like the rash that breaks out

just below the skin over a woman's breasts

as orgasm comes on, and on, and goes.