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Suddenly it was Nintysixth Street

and I jumped, out of the knowledge of death,

out of the sight of his dusty jacket.

But I turned on the platform to memorize

another angle on his face - gone

from behind the window-filling conductor -

must have come behind me -

turned behind me to the stairway

while I stood stupid looking for the local

and forgot him long enough to lose

my chance to see him in motion.

I know he was in no haste.

V.  Under Ground

The subway like a competent

father won't let his children grow

up too innocent

in black alcoves with iron

ladders and unexplained numerals, home

of warm sleep

in tunnels of spittle and gum

like a hard father always there

he shows his brood

in fast snatches the dark

shot with occasional blue lamps

with columns

Walk:  Riverside Park (Upper West Side)

Little and big dogs bathe in blue air;

     wade in thickening

grass; fill their mouths, noses,

lungs with each other's fluid scents;

     weave new geometries,

revel in low comedies of sensuous

pursuit; grapple, growl, snap,

     race to retrieve;

swerve greedily together and apart

while leash-danglers sidle, pretend like parents

     that none is more

cruel, lonely or broke than the rest

until the park becomes unsafely

     dark, and the pairs

leash up and lead each other home.

Death While Traveling

I.

Beginner's assaults on the polis, clumsy

generative couplings, won't give way to

grace of practiced motion as long as

I keep exploring.  Repetition could

smooth excess from my moves, cure me

of babyhood (where each morning is a foreign

object slipped into my collection) but I

stalk becoming through its unmarked stages.

Shod so water and mud won't matter,

my back to the uptown breeze and to blind

sedated weeks, in Riverside Park

cure does not matter - Easter

is grey, is wet brown, is green

starts and patches of yellow nods

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