Reading Yeats I do not think
of Ireland
but of midsummer New York
and of myself back then
reading that copy I found
on the Thirdavenue El
the El
with its flyhung fans and its signs reading
SPITTING IS FORBIDDEN
the El
careening thru it thirdstory world
in their thirdstory doors
looking as if the had never heard
of the ground
an old dame
watering her plant
or a joker in a straw
putting a stickpin in his peppermint tie
and looking just like he had nowhere to go
but coneyisland
or an undershirted guy
rocking in his rocker
watching the El pass by
as if he expected it to be different
each time
Reading Yeats I do not think
of Arcady
and of its woods which Yeats thought dead
I think instead
of all the gone faces
getting off at midtown place
with their hats and their jobs
and of that lost book I had
with its blue cover and its white inside
where a pencil had written
HORSEMAN, PASS BY!