Saturday, December 4, 2010
From where we stood, on the castle rockOf Central Park, Harlem was as near asTwenty years ago. EverythingBetween then and us was green.
The pond turtles were stacked up like stonesOn stones. The trees were a day awayFrom shucking their own shells.The red wing of a black bird was like a handThat had been dealt, and we were the splendorSight we had given ourselves.
Afterward, it was Amsterdam to Broadway,Columbus Circle down to the sweetRemembered squalor of Times Square,And on every corner: Song.The high hollows of the Peruvians,The mesquite of a jazz trombone,The Mennonites in hairnets and black sneakers.
I wondered later whether we had becomeThe engine of concatenation,Two women made radical
With unappeasable want,The unassailable desire to remember.