When we part, even for an hour,
you become the standing on the avenue 
baffled one, under neon, 
      holding that huge 
red book about the capital— ;
      what will you be in the next hour,
   — bundled to walk 
through creamy coins from streetlamps
on sidewalks to your car, past
     candles reflected in windows, while
mineral sirens fade in the don’t
return,—	driving home past 
    pre-spring plum blossom riot
moments of your thought... 

              Those trees rush to rust leaves, 
each a time-hinge with great energy— 
    they can’t bear inexactitude.
News of revolts in the squares —there—
  & here, the envious have gone to cafés 
  to speak in order to leave things out—
        Love, literature is in flames,
  it was meant to be specific—;
    you have driven past these rooms
ten thousand times to make your report;
make your report; 
 never forget how you felt—

Copyright © 2010 by Brenda Hillman. Used with permission of the author.