WEBVTT

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When a few years ago, I
returned to Cambridge.

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And this time I was alone.

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My husband, he'd been
in graduate school.

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And I had an apartment
on Brattle Street.

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And the next few poems
reflect that life there.

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And this is one about Brattle,
just from the Brattle Street

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window, in the apartment.

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11 says the clock
on the window sill.

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The brew of gold in
the Delft Blue cup

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turns cold while I
stare at Beacon Hill.

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A maze of mist, and
spires, and jade--

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everything flashing and
rising up toward the steeples

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holding up the sky.

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And here I am, six stories high,
looking down through the air,

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where people wade.

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When will I know
enough to despair?

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My country ears hear
the faintest wail

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of a siren staining
the October air.

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Slate and chimneys varnished
with light, a steeple swings

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with a gold cock's tail, and
belfries multiply in my sight.

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