(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.