In Albany or Norfolk or any city at all,
You catch the tang of yellow ginger-air
Suddenly sweet with it, and you turn to it. Where
Does it come from? But there is nothing there. It's gone.
Phantom. No damp, living flowers. No one.
Or when a white fog surrounds you, where you walk
By a barberry hedge, near the railroad in Kingston or Newark,
You hear a known voice beside you say your name,
A friend's, and you answer, yes, yes? The same
Thing. An apparition. A thought. No one.
But the voice, sibylline, the vanishing scent-so close!
Gone.
The light wind fell and said nothing. The house
Kept its own counsel. The grass looked on and held still.
They were there when you bore the grief which broke your life.
They go everywhere with you now. They always will.