by Mark Doty

    Under Grand Central's tattered¹ vault²

    ——maybe half a dozen electric stars still lit——

    one saxophone blew， and a sheer black scrim

    billowed over some minor³ constellation⁴

    under repair. Then， on Broadway， red wings

    in a storefront tableau⁵， lustrous⁶， the live macaws

    preening⁷， beaks⁸ opening and closing

    like those animated⁹ knives that unfold all night

    in jewelers' windows. For sale，

    glass eyes turned outward toward the rain，

    the birds lined up like the endless flowers

    and cheap gems¹⁰， the makeshift tables

    of secondhand magazines

    and shoes the hawkers eye

    while they shelter in the doorways¹¹ of banks.

    So many pockets and paper cups

    and hands reeled over the weight

    of that glittered pavement， and at 103rd

    a woman reached to me across the wet roof

    of a stranger's car and said， I'm Carlotta，

    I'm hungry. She was only asking for change，

    so I don't know why I took her hand.

    The rooftops were glowing above us，

    enormous， crystalline， a second city

    lit from within. That night

    a man on the downtown local stood up

    and said， My name is Ezekiel，

    I am a poet， and my poem this evening is called

    fall. He stood up straight

    to recite， a child reminded of his posture¹²

    by the gravity of his text， his hands

    hidden in the pockets of his coat.

    Love is protected， he said，

    the way leaves are packed in snow，

    the rubies¹³ of fall. God is protecting

    the jewel of love for us.

    He didn't ask for anything， but I gave him

    all the change left in my pocket，

    and the man beside me， impulsive¹⁴， moved，

    gave Ezekiel his watch.

    It wasn't an expensive watch，

    I don't even know if it worked，

    but the poet started， then walked away

    as if so much good fortune

    must be hurried away from，

    before anyone realizes it's a mistake.

    Carlotta， her stocking cap glazed¹⁵

    like feathers in the rain，

    under the radiant towers， the floodlit ramparts，

    must have wondered at my impulse to touch her，

    which was like touching¹⁶ myself，

    the way your own hand feels when you hold it

    because you want to feel contained.

    She said， You get home safe now， you hear？

    In the same way Ezekiel turned back

    to the benevolent¹⁷ stranger.

    I will write a poem for you tomorrow，

    he said. The poem I will write will go like this：

    Our ancestors are replenishing

    the jewel of love for us.

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