August Kleinzahler (1996)
He was watching, looking down at the park
from the 14th floor, waiting.
There is an hour, an afternoon light
well along into winter.
The angle she made with the pram
as she moved past the fountain
could not possibly be improved upon.
Her black hat,
the fur collar and padded shoulders—
a solitary young domestic,
caught through a net of griseous branches,
is getting the baby home before dinner,
home long before dark.
It is terribly cold.
She leans forward, pushing in haste.
At her own now extreme angle
and with the black coat and hat,
the pram underneath her,
the snow underfoot,
she looks, for all the world, from here,
a broken-off piece of Chinese ideogram
moving across the page.
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1 comment:
from The New Yorker January 13, 1996
a pram is a baby carriage (British).
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