So calm in this neon-lit room, the first slow
descents of twilight bathe the Hudson as a ship's
horn echoes out past Liberty. Each glance
now feels like a stock refrain: watching the glowing
reds then blues crossing your parted lips,
I think how much that we love of life seems chance.
Bizarre world, teeming with fears each of us bears,
where every hour some new terror arms,
luckless stiffs, death's holdings only grow,
as all or what little else we might have shared
comes over me, wondering where you are,
still in my arms, whom I may never know.