It's like living in a light bulb， with the leaves

    Like filaments¹ and the sky a shell of thin， transparent² glass

    Enclosing the late heaven of a summer day， a canopy³

    Of incandescent⁴ blue above the dappled sunlight golden on the grass.

    I took the train back from Poughkeepsie to New York

    And in the Port Authority， there at the Suburban⁵ Transit⁶ window，

    She asked， "Is this the bus to Princeton？"—which it was.

    "Do you know Geoffrey Love？" I said I did. She had the blondest hair，

    Which fell across her shoulders， and a dress of almost phosphorescent blue.

    She liked Ayn Rand. We went down to the Village for a drink，

    Where I contrived⁷ to miss the last bus to New Jersey⁸， and at 3 a.m. we

    Walked around and found a cheap hotel I hadn't enough money for

    And fooled around on its dilapidated couch. An early morning bus

    （She'd come to see her brother）， dinner plans and missed connections

    And a message on his door about the Jersey shore. Next day

    A summer dormitory room， my roommates gone： "Are you，" she asked，

    "A hedonist？" I guessed so. Then she had to catch her plane.

    Sally—Sally Roche. She called that night from Florida，

    And then I never heard from her again. I wonder where she is now，

    Who she is now. That was thirty-seven years ago.

    And I'm too old to be surprised again. The days are open，

    Life conceals⁹ no depths， no mysteries， the sky is everywhere，

    The leaves are all ablaze¹⁰ with light， the blond light

    Of a summer afternoon that made me think again of Sally's hair.