after New York,
painted fingertips of a hand raised, hesitant, at my window,

after wet streets,
fast traffic of souls in heavy coats,

after lights on bridges,
honeyed fruits strung from impossible branches,

after scalding daylight on trains,
mornings slow between darknesses,

after oils, waxes, acids, plasters,
strange faces in frames, relentless laughter and plastic glasses,

after dances,
ah, after dances

after voices of men with little to say
and women who were so much to remember –


here is life, reduced to rice
and one white line, a lovely nothing to either side, at last.

New York put her hands back in her lap,
her secrets untouched in the pockets of her dress

she never knew what to do with our poetry