This wild night, gathering the washing as if it were flowers animal vines twisting over the line and slapping my face lightly, soundless merriment in the gesticulations of shirtsleeves,
I recall out of my joy a night of miserywalking in the dark and the wind over broken earth, halfmade foundations and unfinished drainage trenches and the spaced-out circles of glaring light marking streets that were to bewalking with you but so far from you, and now alone in October's first decision towards winter, so close to you— my arms full of playful rebellious linen, a freighter going down-river two blocks away, outward bound, the green wolf-eyes of the Harborside Terminal glittering on the Jersey shore,and a train somewhere under ground bringing you towards meto our new living-place from which we can seea river and its traffic (the Hudson and thehidden river, who can say which it is we see, we seesomething of both. Or who can saythe crippled broom-vendor yesterday, who passedjust as we needed a new broom, was notone of the Hidden Ones?) Crates of fruit are unloading across the street on the cobbles, and a brazier flaring to warm the men and burn trash. He wished usluck when we bought the broom. But not luck brought us here. By designclean air and cold wind polish the river lights, by designwe are to live now in a new place.
