St. Patrick's steps-

A primitive soul would be lost here
where identity is a personal thing;
dissolution
in every walked shadow.
A black coat swinging and sunglasses kept
city-glare and wind and eyes from me;
I felt backlit
by a thousand pallid throats.
This Fifth Avenue cathedral,
limestone that summoned my solitude:
that absolute desire
for nimbus
not of flesh, but of space,
a clavicle of mouthed construct.
On that stairway I felt
my pulse, my toes, the surge of fear.
This is
alone.

I was
Christina
in the Wyeth, but
with
cowboy boots and
blue jeans worn
thin by hands
grasping at yellowed stems,
with eyes lifting over grain
to an empty home
and a face lashed by hair.
Trembling, my hand
closed with delicate curls, like husk from kernel,
upon itself.
Amidst taxis pavement rumbling wool from coat horns
pigeon wings -

I aswirl
grassed stillness
and some selfish absolution.



GLS
3/25/91