No one's dancing here tonight.
Wouldn't you know it.
The cat in profile smiles at the light,
the rain is just a little sound on the metal
of the roof—out of season.
The cat doesn't dance and I wouldn't watch
if she did, Her little soul though
It's Sunday again, but there will be
no calls home, no walks east in Manhattan
to the docks, or to the bakeries south
of Houston Street. Only muted sun
off the Avenue and wilted endive
for a snack and Riesling
from Oregon. Geographical,
The train passes through the night,
through tunnels like the night,
through open fields, at night.
The elemental racket of the rails
through the wine country of Umbria
keeps the two of us alert but saying nothing,
the wind whistling the sec [...]