The Hour Until We See You

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.