by Rachel Hadas
Our argument went walking down the street.
Fresh light bounced off the water:
a harbor was behind us, out of sight
except for those exuberant refractions,
morning’s hope and afternoon’s late ripeness
arm in arm. What time was it? Where were we?
I craned for street signs; could decipher nothing.
Radiant, rinsed, the slates beneath our feet
shone up at us, wet silver.
Was this the city where we’d always lived?
You can find this in Halfway Down the Hall.