Poems
White-Throated Sparrow
Augustine may of course be right
(As in so many things) to state
That we know principally through sight,
Which sense the others emulate.
And yet this rash autumnal glow
That so inflames the city trees
Might seem at most a facile show
Put on by Public Works to please,
And not a sign the year makes haste
To spend itself into the void
By way of mere display of waste
In foliage prodigally deployed.
It might seem so—had I not heard,
Walking to work, first one clear tone,
Then three tones, up a minor third.
I knew that voice as if my own:
That statement made with little stir,
That miniature heroic air,
So redolent of balsam fir
It seemed the very North was there.
July in the City
“At present I am a sojourner in civilized life again.”
Lost in a pavement maze,
An unfamiliar street:
Behind the steering wheel
Grown slippery with sweat,
Beneath the luminous heat
Of Somerville at night,
Where not a single star
Impinges on the haze,
I navigate by sight
Of lunar rising, feel
The arc of angle through
That distant disk of light
And glimpses of a blue
Fair-weather beacon, far
Across the city, set
Atop a tower of steel.
Another Dream-Pang
In sleep I cycled down
A narrow graveled road
An easy couple of miles
Out from the nearest town
To where a farmer’s stand
On laid-out trestles showed
The season’s fruit in piles.
I stopped to purchase some
And hefted in my hand
One specimen of each—
One darkly shining plum,
One fragrant russet pear,
One tender velvet peach.
I gave the girl a ten—
She couldn’t break the bill,
And so she promptly went
To resupply the till.
She never reappeared,
But left me standing there
Holding the fruit that then
Was only mine in part.
Prey to a waxing, weird,
Uncanny bafflement,
I waited thus until
The clock’s insistent buzz
Wakened me with a start—
Awake enough to see
How little hope there was
That I would taste that fruit,
But not enough to be
Unburdened of the strange
Vexation that, to boot,
I’d never get my change.