Blue street, bell-decked
Clydesdales, quarter to ten and daylight
wan through the rain.
Blue street where M did her laundry.
Crept up today and over the pass
and again in reverse—back on my traces,
done what I could—
Forgetting most of what we see,
we're all falling now, falling east,
down the dark flank of the solstice.
Ten is at night.
If I can make myself mine this—
mine, how I—
One final cup before the road, crept up
today, the whole building empty except
for clocks that showed the wrong time
and a package of Q-tips.
M, why did you?
Forget the horses
and tourists, this is my last night here,
I'm clean, I've done what I could.
M for I.
The river turns 90 degrees
in its stern walled channel. Quarter to ten.
How I must have seemed
to her on the twentieth floor—
a pittance, a child's idea of travel.
Going-to-the-Sun is the name of the road.
Author Discusses Poems