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.