(I) MANHATTAN STONE

Or how they would dance in the churches of Harlem
north of Columbia where the heights roll down into
   shadow
and ALBANY points whiter into Saturday light

If I end here in the land of denial, a wind off the Hudson
blowing over the Palisades, the cargo thunder
air drying my eyeballs, final myopia, will carry me home

Nothing here is the way I conceived it: women driving
   alone
lift their knees, from gas to brake, sculling the clutch
and the gear shifts on the wheel like the bolt of a gun

I lost in Spain, along with a war and my hopes of peace
driving with one who held a cigaret like a shell
like a cartridge,the word snicks shut in third gear, going
   uptown
...