Dusk at St. Marks, As Seen From Dunkin Donuts

The spire silhouettes a fire
The dark stamen of a flame
Its anther fringed by whorls
Of browning oranges
Isn't this happening enough?
I ask myself and slurp
My coffee.

This is my salon
Des refuses, no-one's refused.
Its windows offer cheaper views.
Saying the words is the
Prayer, a homeless man
Preaches. The prayer is
The saying. He's burnished
By dusk too. The words
And the light are his home,
He says, but we all know
That's not right.

                            Outside
They're wrapping up a TV
Shoot, leaving fake snow
And ice before the church.
People trudge and laugh at
This summer blizzard, snowball
Fights erupt before the quick thaw.
I think of Avedon's shot of Auden,
Peering through the squall, hands
Tucked into his overcoat, looking
At us — here — as the dusk does its burying

Copyright © 2008 Dylan Willoughby All rights reserved
from Agenda
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission