May

 

(after James Schuyler)

 

I’m squinting at the horizon. The sun I can’t see but

its hands are on me even though I’m not outside.

I’m leaning over a balcony in New York even though

I’ve never been there and I won’t be going next month.

I remember the first of April as if it were May, things

were starting to go pink and green in the light but we

drank too much and ruined it. I suspect the new-born

will be older when we get there and the old-born?

The here and now cranes its neck, looks over, yearns

for gossip as relief from its paperwork. I’m no less

faulty than when I set out to catch it last year. Facts

need to be remembered. An owl last night was trying

to tell me some but stopped as we both had deaf ears.

I missed a hot room packed with poetry and Mojitos.

Three days. I can’t get over how it all fits together.

The day I should be in is already way ahead, even now

dabbles in the Bank Holiday’s platonic gracelessness.