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 black, alive.
If one looks closely, a boy in the corner
neglects himself so that he can be
a skirt of mist that knows the tracks
instead of her and will slide into a bar
alone. The door clicks; her lover fixed
upon the ironwork and ghosts
that mark this place looks up,
no longer weary of Proust or Kerouac
or the making of a world from nothing.