Tonight, holding a stranger in my arms—

Suddenly a downpour, a late

Summer storm. I thought of you, alone or

Not alone in that distant city,

And at that hour when the punk musicians’ bars,

And the carpeted bars,

With their well-coiffed, careful clienteles,

Are closing—

Those strangers pairing off at last & each desiring

What little mercy the other can

Afford. That

Wasted breath of neon light a frail

Tattoo or come on in pools

Of rain. That street. That rain.

No. Our street. Our rain. Holding her, not you,

I watched it finally

Empty, watched until the streaked,

Reddening light of dawn came back & touched

The quiet brick of empty dance halls, touched,

Behind blackened tavern windows, a girl’s cast off

Blouse; touched even the pocked faces of musicians

On the posters there: Sick Girl;

The Misstakes—almost as if dawn light could

Hold all things, each piece

Of shattered glass, as if to bless them somehow,

Or make them whole again.

It can’t, or won’t.

And it is late for blessings: All night

I’ve held a woman who,

Tomorrow, I will not want to see again, & who,

Tomorrow, probably will feel the same

For me. And so, at last, the two of us

Will have something in common:

A slight embarrassment, or,

Someday in winter, passing on a street,

A quick, amused glance before

We turn away.

I don’t expect much anymore; or else

That city is so far away by now it seems

Made of great light, & distance,

Even though it was, mostly, only a house

Like any other, lit at dinnertime

By human speech, the oldest of stories; something

In common. I remember now,

After scolding him,

The precise & careful way

My two year old son once offered me

The crust of his own bread, holding it out

So solemnly, as if it mattered, holding it

With great care.