James Tate




The Tryst

In the early evening rain
I leave the vault
and walk into the city

of lamentations, and stand.
I think it is September, September.

Where are you, Josephine?
It is one minute until you must appear,
draped in a grass-green serape,

shorter than most people,
more beautiful, baleful…

pressing a hand to my forehead,
slipping into my famished pocket
the elixir, the silver needle.