Leaving work at the Shoreham,
crossing the 16th St bridge that
leads from the hotel to our side
of town, we would harmonize
an old Sparrow song, “Darling
I can’t remain”, in February,
the city emptied by the myth
of Calypso, drawn to that
island at the end of the chain,
hung there like a charm, snow
falling as we tested the power
of the lyric to comfort, to keep
us warm, while what we really
wished for was to risk being
dashed against the rocks, to
get back for j’ouvert, darling.