To be married to the city is to find
a boy in the rain and cover him
with newspaper and branches
and the novel you’ve neglected.
You come at us in the picture
with electric-dazzled hair
desiring to sin, the thought
of lovers in every yellow window,
the bridge a gho...
She poses as if married to the city itself,
the clutch and scrape of gears
the calls of a lover waiting,
opening wine, beginning a novel.
The captions tumble down Third Avenue
past Franklin and Marsden—
only a slight wind on the bridge tonight
and only her body in bla...
It is altogether too early and I am
altogether without enough coffee to delve
into the idiosyncratic plainspokenness
of Mark Halliday’s metaphors. It’s Monday
and I’m still Sunday, still pondering
how the Cleveland Browns could lose
thirty games in a row and the charm...