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At this point — the table covered with empty bottles — the waitress interrupts the conversation and asks us to move inside so she can close down the patio. It is a moment of decision. One more beer or call it a night? But there is never any doubt — we haven’t even touched on the state of the Yankees yet…
From VIRGA (available at emergencypress.com)
Burnt buildings, white buildings,
coffee-colored buildings
All desperately begging pardon of a buncombe
of breezes
Brush dynamo rusting
Such terribly aggressive dust on the windows
Brunt brown, cigar brown, boot brown tracks
rolling toward the East River
Toward an old juice nest where two painters
now ply their strokes
Two grown men, holed in a garret of one-haired
brushes
(Visions clutter their small room like a covey
of hummingbirds)
