Cliff Fyman : Lines Written in Midtown, 16 December 1993
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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
