ODE TO THE CITY OF HUDSON
Being near people
is almost enough-
there is a wheel out there
spinning in the middle
of this earnest city-
a place
where things used to happen
and poor people live-
now new things happen
in the mind all the time
all the time in the mind
the gods play here
and we see their flesh all round,
bright rim of river
and so slim the streets,
glass
everywhere, brick
steeples and other trees.
Things have to be far away
to be distinct,
the distances are built right in-
brick again, ruddy rhombs
baked from earth and straw,
each one a parasang folded in upon itself,
we still use Persian measures-
newer measures trick us
into thinking we know what they mean,
what they measure.
What we mean.
How far away are you?
Will my car get me to you
with a lot of walking to be done
maybe, is there a door
on all these little streets
to let me in?
Who's 'me'
you ask, rightly, all these words
carry visas of their own,
you can never tell who's talking
just by the words they say.
Sing like shop windows
full of art, the intricate
imaginations of strange
folk spread wide
into the fading light.
So then it gets dark.
Unlikely outcomes gleam
on grill chrome, cars
pursue destinations
their headlights project
onto the specious reality of
(as he said, our joyous voice)
night!
This leaves me.
I stand on the sidewalk
of this bijou city
moodily licking ice cream
in some weird artisanal flavor
(maple macadamia; pine-nut mousse)
content to watch the lights change
red into green like one-trick mephistos
or like spring coming home
again and again
or just this one last time,
who knows,
You bet
I'm lonely - to be in the body
is already crying out loud.
I just have to make sure
I never said this before.
