Coda: A Fall Evening (redux)

The dying day teethes
On the tinny taste of bus exhaust.
Eight O’ Eight roars away.
Bayside shadows cast and reel back nothing.
And now the toothy breeze
Seizes the silver weeds
With a violent shake,
And rasps the bayside clear.
Distant machines whir.
The muted stars reappear,
Briefly, in refracted waterlight.
Then, bared, the incisors of the night.

What I’m Reading:

Like all hotel rooms, this one’s asking you 
                   to cry. You wait until you’ve left the large bed,  
                  the elevator dings open and you’re on West 46th 
                 passing long October coats.

— K. Iver / “The Gotham Hotel”