>> This is the last poem I'd like to read for you.
It's called Clifton at night.
I like to write poems about the dark.
I used to visit in Clifton often, as a girl.
My relatives used to live high up on one of those hills,
overlooking the little park that's there in Clifton.
Clifton was not so unusual in that nothing ever happened.
There are a lot of towns like that, where nothing ever happens.
But Clifton, at that time, seemed to me like a place where nothing could happen.
And that makes it something memorable.
Clifton at night.
We sit so high above the river, all is a step down or yards down, or miles down.
The ground beneath this porch, the steps down the hill, the park wall dropping to the river,
the water's edge punching to the water bottom.
How far do our words go out to the river before they drop down?
Does a loud laugh go further?
What if I screamed, wanting to touch the bottom?
We sit in shadows, looking out toward the river which we cannot see.
The cat may be beneath this poster porch.
There may be a small dog walking beside the stream or a fish passing in the mirk.
The porch creeks, the street sounds and the park's chatter rises to us.
Once in the park, a girl rang by girls, I chanted a sonnet.
They did not know what it was, but wanted it again like cake because they're in the park
at night, the river made it theirs.
The train doesn't come at night but it could cross.
Excuse me.
The train doesn't come at night but it could cross against the river.
A car could cross over the bridge.
We could chant, instead of speak.
Why is it we do not?
Looking down on the park, I recall those magic runs, the wealth they brought,
steadying though nothing come or cross, but the river and one star above Shannon Hill.
Thank you.