The name of the alley is Pine Street where the rottweiler
pushed his way into a degrading doghouse
past a filthy towel that served as a floating
door or window to keep out the light. The street
is called Walnut where there is a posted sign
and six or seven refrigerators for sale
in the front yard and two or three boarded-up windows,
and it is Fifth, I think, where I walked through
the mourners in front of the converted synagogue,
and it is one of the hills, Ferry or College, 
that I climbed up to see if I could strike a
balance between my leather lung and my sodden
thigh, and which would go first and how long it took
before we could breathe on our own and whether the sycamore
that split the stone sidewalk came by the wind
a half mile below or it was just planted
for shade and beauty. And how high you had to go
to see both bridges, and where you should stand to hear
the roar, and if you still could hear the ringing.