STONE’S THROW

Morning: walking new streets:
Marseilles, canaries singing gaily
from sunny cages in tenement windows
high above.

And noon: a horse
dead in Manhattan, a big dun dressed
to the nines just struck by a taxi,
Central Park West, the bright yellow cab
tossed up under a linden tree—

Both just in
from thirty years ago:

Extend the tongue and take
the conjugation.

That wolf whistle blown backwards means
“Hey, over here!”

And sundown
the elegy-in-advance: for Lewis,
Jerry Lee: Men without pianos
hurry through the stations.