by Lucie Brock-Broido

    After vespers， after the first snow

    has fallen to its squalls， after New Wave，

    after the anorexics have curled

    into their geometric forms，

    after the man with the apparition¹

    in his one bad eye has done red things

    behind the curtain of the lid & sleeps，

    after the fallout shelter in the elementary school

    has been packed with tins & other tangibles²，

    after the barn boys have woken， startled

    by foxes & fire， warm in their hay， every part

    of them blithe³ & smooth & touchable，

    after the little vandals have tilted⁴

    toward the impossible seduction

    to smash glass in the dark， getting away

    with the most lethal⁵ pieces， leaving

    the shards⁶ which travel most easily

    through flesh as message

    on the bathroom floor， the parking lots，

    the irresistible⁷ debris⁸ of the neighbor's yard

    where he's been constructing all winter long.

    After the pain has become an old known

    friend， repeating itself， you can hold on to it.

    The power of fright， I think， is as much

    as magnetic heat or gravity.

    After what is boundless⁹： wind chimes，

    fertile patches of the land，

    the ochre symmetry of fields in fall，

    the end of breath， the beginning

    of shadow， the shadow of heat as it moves

    the way the night heads west，

    I take this road to arrive at its end

    where the toll¹⁰ taker passes the night， reading.

    I feel the cupped heat

    of his left hand as he inherits

    change； on the road that is not his road

    anymore I belong to whatever it is

    which will happen to me.

    When I left this city I gave back

    the metallic¹¹ waking in the night， the signals

    of barges¹² moving coal up a slow river north，

    the movement of trains， each whistle

    like a woodwind song of another age

    passing， each ambulance would split a night

    in two， lying in bed as a little girl，

    a fear of being taken with the sirens

    as they lit the neighborhood in neon， quick

    as the fire as it takes fire

    & our house goes up in night.

    After what is arbitrary： the hand grazing

    something too sharp or fine， the word spoken

    out of sleep， the buckling¹³ of the knees to cold，

    the melting of the parts to want，

    the design of the moon to cast

    unfriendly light， the dazed shadow

    of the self as it follows the self，

    the toll taker's sorrow

    that we couldn't have been more intimate.

    Which leads me back to the land，

    the old wolves which used to roam on it，

    the one light left on the small far hill

    where someone must be living still.

    After life there must be life.

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