St. Mark’s Place caught at night in hot summer,
Lonely from the beginning of time until now.
Tompkins Square Park would be midnight green but only hot.
I look through the screens from my 3rd floor apartment
As if I could see something.
Or as if the bricks and concrete were enough themselves
To be seen and found beautiful.
And who will know the desolation of St. Mark’s Place
With Alice Notley’s name forgotten and
This night never having been?
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Not as distant as Guadalajara nor as threatening as Vesuvius. Not noisy like the former nor certain like the latter.
As urgent as? As focused as?
The Ghazal-type signature pines, and I return
a moment to Corman. Differences truly between Corman and Notley, but I can’t place these as surely as I can a distinction between two of my children forced to a morning goodbye.
