Quis hic locus, quae regio, quae mundi plaga?
~T.S. Elliot
I.
city on a river: summer
from
buena vista
and warburton
our city rises
up from river
and
railroad line
ever on the
wrong side
of the tracks
from sunset
seven hills arch
brobdingnagian
feline spines
scratching
an itch for home
against
stars just
winking in a
sky never black but
prussian
blue washed to
nacreous pearl
at the hem
where
babylon west
lights up
the southern
skirt of sky
when night falls
the washington and
tappan zee string
diamonds across
water
palisades
a tawny sash
binding the waist
of twilight
even now
still we
walk cracked slate
pavement long
torn away
with
mingled
city sensation
stalebeerurinehoneysuckle
brokenbottlesmoonlight
glittering with
fireflies in
contrapuntal
summer
dancing between
this
earth
fleshing out the
bones of dreaming
this river
flooding the veins
of memory
II.
city on a river: autumn
summer gone
autumn
doubles over
a retching drunkard vomiting
a raw red and
yellow flush spreads
from
tree to tree
going brown
flaking away
dead skin of days
passing
from
street to street
alley to alley
cold breezes
stumble
crooning
off key songs
to darkling clouds
overhead
muttering
curses
and
gypsy songs
our city's
canto jondo
our city as
granada
was to
federico...
city on a river: winter
winter and
our city on
a river is still
and ever a place for
sunset
almost every evening
we would trudge
uphill to
memorial park
at
vespers
waiting
for a
pale pearl
to pierce the
light
scarred
horizon
obliquely
as a needle
probing for a
vein
for
thin pink clouds to rise
then fade
for shadow of
earth to reach
upward rushing
in antique ritual
lincoln park
is spotted
steam curling
off broadway diner
warminvitingbeckoning
but still we wait
monks frozen to
cold stone
benches
for the last bell
you pass
for you pass a pint
of south pacific
I
mutter
latin words
remembered from
childhood
both
ward off
chill and
malignant
spirits as
our evening mass
ends
we turn our backs
on sky
and river
trudge
home
IV.
city on a river: spring
spring hits
south broadway
warily with
streetwalker's
shaking stiletto steps
onsleetslickpavements
underdressed
artlessly
overmadeup
stinking
of myriad
blossom
hawking favors
to
every
passerby
as she has
each
vagrant season
passing
our city on
a river
a scullery strumpet
always
but
la dona del tobosa
always
imagining her
as we desire her
in recollection
having
gone
to grass and
ridden down
the
relentless
years
wearily
tilting at windmills
an old hidalgo and
squire return to
dusty
dream
incarnate
no longer
shadows
gathering themselves
in old
meeting places
passing one
last glass
so as to
become
remembrance
while
raindrops taps
staccato flamenco
rhythms on a
nearby
diner window
where
someone stares,
vacantly through
these
old ghosts
gathered
outside she
smiles
raises
her glass
to no one
in particular
turning
it over
in one
deft
motion
�2006 Nicholas J
