A Letter to Tara from Baltimore
Baltimore’s a pleasant honey autumn,
but my heart’s with you in Boston.
These leaves wave vulgar facsimiles
of New England’s flashy jewels.
Some of them are still green.
Here, at my desk by the window,
I put my hand up to block out the
row houses across the street.
Once alone with the sky,
I’m transported, and now we’re
walking along The Charles in
Cambridge. And the sailboats
are white fins in among the water’s
sparkle-glints. And there’s the sweet
smell of autumn rot, wood burning.
The leaves flaming and falling
around us and collecting in piles.
That particular grace of warm
sunshine when the air changes
and you realize you have a nose.
Church bells call out the same
and trains clamor like they used to,
but the sidewalk’s a pitiful river when
I take my hand away. Everything’s
slower in Baltimore.
The sun is lazy. The clouds are lazy.
Birds sweeping by, intend to stay.
Someone’s smoking. Wind.
Flesh loosening from bone.
Oh Tara, I am some watcher of skies.