Balcony Scene

Up — or out? — here:
a problem of preposition,

my uneasy relation
with the world. Whether I’m

above it or apart. On the other side
of the latched glass door, a man

loves me. Worries. Calls my name.


Where — for art — thou-
sands of windows go dark

in slow succession. On Essex
and Ludlow and Orchard.

A thousand times goodnight.


A boy throwing stones at a window.
Right window, wrong boy.


Love goes toward love — 

And the place death, down there

waving its white kerchief —

More Poems by Jameson Fitzpatrick