This poem is called access, and it's
one of my favorite poems in this book.
And I think it's a kind of transition poem to a lot
of the work that I'm doing now.
I mean, it has a similar movement.
It's really talking about a very quick meeting with the person
that I never saw again in my life.
And that kind of exchange of information
that can go on sometimes when you happen
to meet with another person at just the right time in both
your lives.
Access, the man you were the beginning of swilling the rain.
Harry, you had time to focus like the knocker on a door
about to be opened.
I'm thinking how an afternoon changes,
walking towards the door without knowing where it is.
How your jaw grinds imitating an effort, you cannot speak of.
Women need men to talk to.
Did you know this when we passed in the dark
and could see each other's faces?
Harry, there is someone breathing heavily
over the microphone.
Our beer has foam on it.
You're Giving day is here and turning on its heel.
Accidents ought to be a way of life.
The bar cleared out.
Did you notice?
When I passed you my one word vocabulary.
I said, access, and you understood it
like the beginning of a private language,
our faces cut sharply in profile the way
an orange is sliced to make a wheel that travels by scent.
The door slams.
It's later now.
I'm home and pushing you away with the groceries,
but there you are, Harry standing
on one toe on top of the Polish bar on 4th Street.
You have a Cape on and carry your anxieties
like a switchboard tangled with incoming calls,
don't answer them.
To take a stance means having to grow still before moving.
So you've entered the walking contest.
I can hear you weaving with love from bar to bar.
You have passed from the light rain
into dark, signaling me by your moving
jaw from a great distance.
The Walker takes off his shoes when he comes to grass.
It's enough.