There were so many streets then in London
they were always going to be there
there were more than enough to go all the way
there were so may days to walk through them
we would be back with the time of year
just as we were in the open day

there were so may words as we went on walking
sometimes three of us sometimes two
half the sentences flying unfinished
as we turned up the collars that had been through the wars
autumn in the park spring on the hill
winter on the bridges under what we started to say

there was so much dew even in Boston
even in the bright fall so many planets poised
on the sills of transparent houses it was coming to pass
around us the whole time before it happened
before the hearts stopped one after the other
and the silent wailing began that would not end

we were going to catch up with some of the sentences
in France or Idaho we were going
to shake them out again and listen
to what had not been caught by history or geography
or touched at all by the venomous weather
it was only a question of where and when.

This Issue

January 14, 1999