L'Heure Bleue

Pigeons furl the silk of their oilslick

   wings and doze on the limed shoulders

of forgotton generals, while the last

commuters descend to the subways,

   where they'll sway above their papers,

reflections streaming through the rapid

dark. Christened bleue by the French,

   this is the hour when evening raises

its azure wand and the light smolders,

cool center of a candle flame,

   the five ring on an archer's target,

a few stars the silvery nibs of arrows

just breaking through. Slender boys

   in waiters' tuxes snap starched linens

over tables for two, as cabbies scour

veils like some fast-traveling rumor,

   gild the drowsing streets, graffitied

      buildings, until even the harbor, the river

freighted with sludge, even the smoke-

   stacks percolating a foul snow of ash

and grit over the Jersey Palisades,

have gone soft-focus, the whole town

   a Chamber of Commerce photo or moony

perfume ad. Prelude to the strict black

of night, this is the moment we may

   imagine the hiss of nylon, the garter

a woman slides, high on her leg,

for a man dressing, even now, in his best

   suit, when we find ourselves humming

Gershwin tunes, thinking romance,

possibility—of glamour we know better

   than by day. Which is why the woman

lingers, her heart beating like a bird's

does, too quickly, why the man hesitates

   beneath her window, his face chiaroscuro

in blue shadow, a square of light.