Tarrytown

The boats wrapped in white
like wedding tents, cranes
in the water next to the bridge
that crosses with a curve.
To be returned to the colors
of the east in winter,
the gray of water,
the gray blue and gray red
of paint on metal,
the modest gray yellow
of a house, or a vine,
tracks in me like peace.
The little sighs
of the gray water,
would you call that a wave?
those cat licks
of up, and down.
Scratchy sticks of the empty trees
worry the yellow stone of the river cliff
as we approach Greystone,
and the boroughs, roaring closer,
with their neighborhoods of dates
past, I tarried did not marry!
Schist in the cliff:
there was some heat, time
decisively compacted into
rock under ground under homes.
The gulls stand very solid
their feathers ruffling like Hudson waves.
Considering that I'm still hoisting
my laundry upstate and down,
oh back and forth river, where's peace?
Take a look at the posture
of that still, cold bird.