After It

The Hudson dark      like a rock.

The Hudson      rocking this boat.
There is no      light coming from it.
There is a boat moving blackly
through the night. He holds out
his hand.

I sit next to a man I never loved but let

kiss me wetly for two months.

Jersey twinkles in      and out of this.

When will I turn back

to a cold,      gold thing? After

the year the river      still presses
with a kiln’s glowing shade.
Knots of burnt rubber
unlace      the air.
They were not bodies      because bodies
travel faster.
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