Times Square, Sundown
What did you say?
I said I heard the sound
of the river and the
creeks and the hurricanes;
they sounded like breaking bones.
Sundown.
What did you say?
I said the sound was
bare. The sound was
naked.
It asked no questions and gave
no answers.
It walked on stovetops, barefoot.
Times Square.
What did you say?
I said the sound brought me
under its blanket.
It held me while I held its throat.
It held me while
I trembled and laughed.
Sundown.
What did you say?
I said you lived forever under the
auburn sky. I said you lived forever
under the silent stars, the dancing planets.
I wish you had believed me, then.
Times Square.
What did you say?
I said he should have shut the door tightly
He shouldn’t let the worms and
flies and spiders and
mosquitos escape
from their home.
Sundown.
What did you say?
I said it was dark. I couldn’t see
my hand in front of my face. I
couldn’t see who was holding
his hand. Tightly,
as if he were clinging to the side
of a cliff.
Times Square.
What did you say?
I said the sound was hardly colorless.
Magenta, scarlet, celeste.
Electric colors, teeming in the waves,
holding the current.
Expressive, warm, sensual,
falling into a tunnel,
endless.
Sundown.
What did you say?
I said the sound was like the
bellicose patrons of the arcades.
Anger, fury, resentment.
Are they having fun?
Times Square.
What did you say?
I said I was chewing my
fingernails and picking
my scabs. I was saying
prayers to everything and
giving alms to nothing.
Sundown.
What did you say?
I said the night, on you, looked
like veins, crawling up
and down your arms, your neck,
crawling down your back,
crawling down your legs.
Times Square.
What did you say?
I said the final movement was
nearly finished. The melodies laid
in the air. They landed
at the top of that mountain,
where the river begins.
Where it always will begin.
Sundown.
What did you say?
I said I’m sorry. I
said I’m sorry. I said
I’m sorry. I said I’m
sorry. I said I’m sorry.
Times Square.
What did you say?
Sundown.
I said nothing.
