Past four in the afternoon the last day here
the winter light is draining out of the sky
to the east over the grays of the roofs
over the tiered bricks and dark water tanks
clock towers aerials penthouse windows
rusted doors bare trees in terrace gardens
in the distance a plane is coming in
lit by the slow burn of the sun sinking
two weeks before the solstice and the lingering
perfect autumn still does not seem to be
gone the walls of the apartment and the long
mirrors are becoming shadows the latest
telephone already cut off is huddled
against the wall with its deaf predecessors
the movers have not showed up for what is left
bare bed bare tables and the sofa the piled
LP’s the great chair from which at this hour
once I called up a friend on Morton Street
to tell him that all the windows facing
west down the avenue were reflecting
a red building flaming like a torch
somewhere over near the old post office
on Christopher Street the sirens were converging
all the bells clanging and the sky was clear
as it is now they are stacking Christmas trees
along the fence again down at the corner
to the music of the subway under
the avenue on its way to Brooklyn
twenty-five years