Edda in Argentina
 
When I phoned Edda
in Argentina,
she shouted:
“What are you doing?”
“What else, but writing
poems about you?
How was your trip?”
She was sad on Sunday,
waiting hours alone
at the airport.
I said the whole city was sad:
that New York had dropped an octave
as she boarded her plane
for Buenos Aries.

It’s true that a city resounds
     with discord
when a soul like Edda
flies far away,
turning head and home
into something numb
     and cold:

Rain tapping
on tin-plated windowsills
as Edda walks
beneath
lonesome
Southern skies.