Across the street
nine boys in the weeds scream,
hurling rocks. Blackbirds
are headlines overhead.

One boy looks at the sun.
And I look back at how
I stood, under a tree,
my hands hot with stones.
A squirrel, tail up 
and balanced on a bough,
faced me like a question
I couldn’t answer.

Here, on this jewel of earth, 
time tears at the green edge.
This pane, thin water,
makes two small islands
of my eyes;
and the sky
always seems to be
the sail of a great ship
that never reaches land.

Below, on the sidewalk,
a neighbor’s little girl,
tall as a yardstick,
her eyes in glasses,
on her bike rides by
singing, Oh lady of Spain,
I adore you…

1960

 = Sarah Kobrinsky