It was three in the morning,
on the first day of Spring.
The wind was bitter about something.
Everyone in New York was asleep.
The promenade, deserted,
Street lights shone on stone.
A single wall rose impassively.
Very spare, very classical.
I crossed the emptiness alone,
arrived at the black iron rail.
There was the river, below.
Somehow alive, sliding by,
magnetic darkness moving.
I wanted to throw
the whole shebang.
The river was aching.
I plunged my hand inside,
squeezed, compacting your ashes,
which landed with a pattering,
upon the roiling black river.
I whispered “You were so loved,”
I threw, and threw, and threw.
You dissapeared into the river,
Your dust was lit by rising light.
I stumbled from the spot,
then flung the box as well.
It touched down on dark surface,
hurried off, a house in the night.
You had become an explosion
on the side of the promenade wall.
I brushed off what I could,
then turned, and walked away,
My hand was white and glowing
in the sliver of the crescent moon.
My drawing hand was tingling.
I was unburdened, empty.
Alone, I walked weightless.
In a window I saw myself,
spattered with ashes,
in my hair, ashes in my beard.
Ashes powdered my parka.
I walked you down to 66th street,
then turned, wandered back uptown.
The buildings became a cathedral,
somewhere a bell was tolling.
I heard the birds that morning,
and slept in a bare white room,
with a single candle burning.
As I left the city, it began to rain,
tentative drops on the taxi,
grew insistent as I crossed the bridge,
and saw out the window, across the trestles,
down the river to the place
where your ashes
were being washed away.
On the airplane,
the windows are streaming.
Great art deco teardrops,
streaking across the plexiglass.
I have lost the best I’ll ever have.
I have no one I can talk to.
I count on you to haunt me.