I always say, poetry readings when the poet doesn't at least
tell some stories-- but this is a poem
I couldn't think of any introduction to it.
So I'll at least locate it.
Somebody is sitting-- the speaker
is sitting in front of a window, watching
the passing scene in a city.
It's called "Last Light," and it's for Tina Feingold.
"Before picking up the knife, I stared out
the window at the street.
Neutral, dull, until a woman passed leading a funny red dog,
her lips pursed in a whistle I could not hear.
Just one kiss, I thought, through her belly to the bones
and the organs barely kept in place.
I held my breath.
The woman turned the corner and I
opened the window to follow the trail over the red roofs.
Then I was alone again.
Some last light caught the knife's blade--
caught up in its strength--
and quivered three times.
All the others in the city, I thought,
walk off their murders with their little dogs,
and I sit by the window taking notes.
Something went wrong.
I was left numb.
A brain blind in a damp cell, far from the heart."