Long Poems on Denise Levertov

March wipes            
its muddy boots.    
Spring advances:  
basilicas of tulip, forget me nots, blue—   
the color of black birds.  
   
The park bench facing east of an empty sun—  
tangerine skirt, blouse akimbo  
amid purple limbs.  
   
  Near the Northern Triangle  
  a migrant woman is raped  
  by an indigenous guide  
  as her child sleeps.  
   
The park yawns  
its saffron teeth emerge;  
a nocturnal atmosphere awakens—     
its stridulatory organs rub in unison     ...

The daily routine of others  
never seems the way for her;  
 
when traffic mills in gridlocked streets  
with lines of yellow at a standstill.  
 
Where a pedestrian believes  
she’ll make better time,  
until the subway entrance;  
 
that disgorges commuters  
up and out into the light of day.  
 
Some racing for buses that slow  
as people break away from the curb  
and push frantically between,  
 
to dodge and sprint  
to the other side of the street.  
 
In the midst...