Arrivals and departures on the board,
Traveling days linked with lilacs 
Whose redolence derails our sense of time. 
They bloom, as you know, between the embankment
And the parkway. In countless clusters, they peak 
From pungent wells beneath the midtown towers, 
Charged with resurrection. And the S-train 
Still weaves its subterranean routine,   
And spirits climb into the city sun.
 
On Broadway: shops with helixing bouquets,
Perennials in rows, and cherry trees
Where traffic islands deepen into parks.
The long bazaar streams by with so much sun
Our thought grows light as helium and climbs
Past cornices and fire escapes, yet we land 
At noon, bouquet in hand, centripetal.
A child with a yellow number brooch
Waits softly by, riding the elevator up.
 
A watercolor of an Indian
Donated by a guest that none remember
Greets us without suspicion or dismay.
Don’t look at me, she seems to say, if you
Don’t understand. Make of it what you will.
The keys are on a paper clip, their teeth
Compel the tumbler, the knob is smooth and heavy.
She holds in her unwrinkled palm a plum.
The door that always opens opens. Come.