Souvenir from Boston
From the stories rising only as high
as the sun would take them, the city
overhung and shadowed the city sky.
I saw from my window the drapery
of light hung over the waking afternoon,
and hints of what stirred beneath.
—Bright-eyed again, the evening croons
its intimate song with wine-sanguine breath
that stains the smoke-shrouded glass
of my highrise window. I see the city
undressed, her lights no longer overcast
by light. Her hair falls lavishly,
and I as well. Tonight, we pull
at her locks—a wish something wonderful.