When a few years ago, I returned to Cambridge.
And this time I was alone.
My husband, he'd been in graduate school.
And I had an apartment on Brattle Street.
And the next few poems reflect that life there.
And this is one about Brattle, just from the Brattle Street
window, in the apartment.
11 says the clock on the window sill.
The brew of gold in the Delft Blue cup
turns cold while I stare at Beacon Hill.
A maze of mist, and spires, and jade--
everything flashing and rising up toward the steeples
holding up the sky.
And here I am, six stories high, looking down through the air,
where people wade.
When will I know enough to despair?
My country ears hear the faintest wail
of a siren staining the October air.
Slate and chimneys varnished with light, a steeple swings
with a gold cock's tail, and belfries multiply in my sight.