The Late Quartets

And the blind bird in the hibiscus
you could catch it in your hands
and its wings beat against the shell of your hands.

Many years after the accident at the well
the islanders are falling again to sleep,
gravel in her song.

Occasionally the traffic running parallel
the river
are similar.

And these momentary convergences
a catalogue of "still" and "no longer".
She wears a ring the color of his eyes.

Meanwhile the late quartets spill on directionless—
that night under the cherry tree and violet sky, etc.
Slowly it's become your New York again without you.

Dust pinwheels in a column of light,
fruit flies circling the sink.

whose one move discounts all possible others...

Copyright © 2003 Ryan Murphy All rights reserved
from The Canary
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission