Not really blue. Not really great, either:
just tall, and stilted, less beautiful
than striking. But still, I always stop.
I watch it the way I watch the work cranes
swinging over Cambridge, absurd
amidst the college spires, the chapels,
the old cloud of God. I watch the way
I watch the last choirboy trailing out
of King’s, the one who is unloved,
who stumbles on his robes, clutching
his grubby book of psalms. Night
after night, I stop my bike before
the same staggered scene: the slow lurch
of the bird toward the river, the boy
going still at the end of the line. I watch
as if I am not part of it. Or as if I can find
some sense in it, wandering these streets,
all this darkening December: I, who am both
and neither, another stranger in this land.
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