Vespers

I am sitting on a bench watching the day die.
It is at 42nd street, like the song, and October
Like the season. You are in Pakistan where I found you
And left you without disturbing for a moment
The proud, quiet and terrified child I dreamed about.
It is six o’clock; there are runners and bankers
Going home past me, sweating to be thin,
Grunting to be richer. What do they carry in their cases?
I don’t know: I am thinking you might say “cats.”
Here in the soft orange Manhattan night
In autumn weather I am in Lahore and it is May
And scorching hot. I walk into a classroom at seven.
Someone says that prayers have changed:
People will be late. I can start if I want to.
You are there, half smiling at my confusion (you
Will not remember this) so I start and people come.
I want to say: Miss, let us go out into the hot night
Let’s stand under the moon while the peacocks sleep.
I will touch your cheek and you will look into my
Eyes and I will never have to say another word.
A woman with a white cardboard cup sits down
Next to me and says What a life. It is New York
So I cannot disagree. She says looking ahead,
Did you have a good day? I want to say, Not bad;
I say It was a day because that will make her laugh.
She laughs. I know what will come next.
But I am in Lahore and you are looking at me:
The birds are quiet in the trees
And you cannot look at me for long because, after all,
It is late and the dark is thick and full of promise.
I could use a coffee I say to her, looking at her.
I could use more, she says looking down.
In Lahore I take your hand. I touch your hair
You are like holding the salt spray against the wind--
That soft and that ephemeral: you blow through me.
You leave my hair a mess and my cheeks wet with your breath.
In the soft orange Manhattan night in perfect weather
You are what I see when I see the moon
Above the Hudson shining on us, wanting more.