Cliff Fyman: Lines Written in Midtown, 16 December 1993

Fall '08 TOC

when it wanders
            in the first snow
                             a chill light
happen to be alive
     walking in a silver crease
            with my father
looking for Villon
            and her     and them

in the flow of existence where 9 rivers meet and split
in the presence of bodies qualified to receive souls
in the presence of scattered instruments of creation
in the squeezing of what’s left

to keep expanding at night

is it too late?  is it over?  is it time?
What’s moving there?
what’s the damage?
                                    is it too cold?
                          are his fingers frozen?
is there someone sleeping there?

            rain

            rain

with the emergence of a scheme
                 in the depleted streets
as Macy lights cascade
            from the facade
in the sizzling conflict of Jewish-Arab sides
in the beginning of the political year
in the irritating dust
as the aged face the future
                 looking for family
give in to the old man’s demands
                 for once in sympathy
a concentrated stamina
to be many people at once
of many places of many times

to answer

to keep coming back
            in the insistence of light’s aim
                                    in the poisoned rain
                 from an unknown cloud

walking from work in an aura of nightlamps
                          between speeding cars
            fascinated by a luminous hat shop window
   tips in my sock

                              freed sometimes by the city’s largeness

                                    to watch to dare and to be silent

   rage against bigotry in all bone!

                        a Java eye, a jalopy pen

      she died kind
               my mother’s death
                                  radiates ethereal light

                          silences the streets

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Not Enough Night
Not Enough Night
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