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The Stranger

By James LongenbachPosted Wednesday, July 12, 2000, at 3:00 AM ET

House quieter this morning, although I know

You're here.
Somewhere the river. Somewhere
You listening for currents, dark ghost

Swirling in the eel grass, taking shape. Then
Footsteps, a memory—ice breaking

In shallows, rivulets, still cold. Somewhere

—When was it?—we lived beside a river.
Water swift, too high, so the bank seemed

Dangerous, no edge or lip—
Listen to the river.
I know it's distant now,
The sound of a body splashing there

Alone, waiting. Who was it? Did we know?

Our eyes are cluttered, a lifetime's flotsam
Hoarded in a house we'll never leave.
Outside

The water is frozen but the ground is soft.
Pull me down as if I were—I am—

The stranger trembling in the weeds.

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James Longenbach is the author most recently of Draft of a Letter, a collection of poems, and The Art of the Poetic Line, essays on poetic form.
Click here to visit Poet Laureate Robert Pinsky's Favorite Poem Project site.
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