Tonight I thought of you, Anne.

A friend collected the debris of her life and strung them into bracelets.

I entered the urban carnival at 125^th and Lenox,

Saw the shoe-shined Witnesses, the lunatic, the men in their exposure,

the Saturday Shoppers in their muffs-

For two weeks I have mended and given her alms,

Tidied her messes, reconstructed a life,

slept in the bed she made,

as though I myself was not an unvetted talent for disaster,

erratically medicated,

harried,

pulled at like a coat-

I too have felt the wind shriek at Lenox, Erica,

Where the subway placards hold like palisades against the

downdraft

And the boulevard bleeds wide.

I have wanted to shout myself through the streets as you did,

Telling you I would turn to everyone and no one at all when I

 declared it time-

Tonight the snow slurries in Harlem.

 I think of the mind wherein I have lived like a rat for 400 days

 recycling thought loops,

 and then of the one you leapt through-

Visitation has ended.

aborted in that gesture,

I leave here a tourist.