HOME / poem: A weekly poem, read by the author.

The City

By Paul BreslinPosted Tuesday, Sept. 10, 2002, at 12:56 PM ET

Listen to Paul Breslin reading this poem.

In the summer evening, young men and women are running
beside the water—the men shirtless, the women in shining
synthetic shorts and racer-back bras that shimmer in arc-light.
They want to remain desirable and desired, they stay out
late to breathe in these winds that shake the leaves' magnified
shadows. Small boats ride at anchor, starboard green,

port red, signing the lanes of passage. A rust-dark moon
leans on the water; climbing night-flights lean on the air.
And each runner leans forward: could the stranger once
glimpsed in a window, high in the sky-wall teeming with lights,
even now, just over the rise in the path, be striding
invisibly nearer, to recognize at a glance the one who waits?

E-MAIL

RECOMMEND... Get Slate RSS Feeds

Paul Breslin, professor of English at Northwestern University, is the author most recently of You Are Here.

Click here to visit Robert Pinsky's Favorite Poem Project site.To submit poetry to Slate, send up to five poems and a self-addressed, stamped envelope to: Robert Pinsky, Slate Magazine, Boston University, 236 Bay State Road, Boston, MA, 02215.

What did you think of this article?

Join The Fray: Our Reader Discussion Forum

POST A MESSAGE | READ MESSAGES