I’m stationed over piles of leaves
The bottom of the pile wet and cool
Like a fish hook.
And she’d look back at him
As if he were a newspaper left to the streets for a day, unread.
His colors were stained supple
Like a chalk line prison
That can only be pointed to as a cause
Until his day up close to the sun.
Justice conceived at the steps of the court
She’d find him under the pile of leaves
On the return
The park was bare in the fall
Fig trees stood calm
Like an old picture show
Swaying in rhythms of a past, jettison –
To this glorious day,
New England’s birth.
“And not since Antigone have we seen such decisive action”
The plebian chorus proclaimed.
And saints would fill the fantasy of their neighbors
For in the fog and dust up the way
The storm would pass them
Like hope floating down a street towards the water
And Hart Crane would wonder for days on end about the night when fog had descended
Up out of the imaginative peaks
Picking up the leaves with little effort
Like thoughts in turn
Where at once bricks, my history, and the leaves swirl back into the water.
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