Louis Grudin

I—THE WOOLWORTH

THEY will fashion their cities after you

When there is peace,

Pale glory in the mist,

White waterfall of granite

From heaven.

Have you ever seen the wind

Ruffle the rivers of people,

Down in the bottoms

Of streets?

III—THE RIVER

There were white petals, millions of them,

Fluttering over the water, to the very edge of our ship,

From the moon.

Have you no pity for me,

Who have found

A little beauty?

How many stars, how many

Cities,

Will you blow out with your breath

When you come to me?

I squandered

All I had; I wanted to live. Now nothing

Is left me.

VII

With my own hands

I blotted out the sun.

God is a satirist.

VIII

All my beautiful moments

I give away,

But the shadows in me

Are dumb.