Birthday

The ant trail of red lights stretches

south on the avenue—the longest line

is the line that moves away from you.

I dream waves sliding in the wrong

direction—a sea of aloof spins away

again. Cold hours rise from the foamy

twist. Something will happen;

something else will not happen.

Hours before: tea candle moons,

careless heads floating over glasses

& the evening in flux. Voices tumbled

from the black & red coils of night

& I saw a wish: to carry the last book

on the last train. I wake before 6—

a frigid moon pinned to the corner

of my window. Outside St. Patrick’s

Old Cathedral, black leaves jewel odd

branches, uncertain against a zero sky.