Читать книгу These Intricacies - David Harrity - Страница 12

I remember your face surprised

at what was missing

as we stood at Ground Zero,

looking in Manhattan’s mouth.

The buildings on the block

still draped in sheets, frocked statues.

Rain and mist arriving with us

to fill the gap and soak our coats.

You said I love you, and I thought

how strange and sudden we can be.

What comes after a moment

when you’re still and staring?

Tragedy made us hungry and dumb—

a long walk and night ferry home,

clicking photos of the cityscape,

absent two jeweled reaches to the sky.

What should have come,

and what comes in the distance,

is that we’re hardly more

than intimate strangers, and I

should have said it back.

But there were sounds

I couldn’t make then and the ones

we heard had to be enough—

taxis bleating out, flags clapping

deep above our heads, boots

against the ground. I said

nothing back, and now

there’s nothing but a hole

in me, fathomed with regret.