Дениза Левертов. С крыши

From The Roof 

This wild night, gathering the washing 
as if it were flowers animal  vines twisting 
over the line and slapping my face lightly, 
soundless merriment in the gesticulations 
of shirt sleeves,
I recall out of my joy a night of misery 

walking in the dark and the wind over 
broken earth, 
half made foundation and unfinished 
drainage trenches and the spaced-out 
circles of glaring light 
marking streets that were to be walking 
with you but so far from you,

and now alone in October 's first decision 
towards winter,  so close to you-
my arms full of playful rebellious linen, 
a freighter going down-river two blocks 
away, outward bound,  
the green wolf-eyes of the Harborside 
Terminal glittering on the Jersey shore,
and a train somewhere under ground 
bringing you towards me to our new 
living-place from which we can see

a river and its traffic (the Hudson and
the hidden river, who can say which it is 
we see, we see something of both. 
Or who can say the crippled broom-vendor 
yesterday, who passed just as we needed 
a new broom, was not one of the 
Hidden Ones?)
Crates of fruit are unloading across the 
street on the cobbles, 
and a brazier flaring to warm the men
and burn trash. He wished us luck 
when we bought the broom. 
But not luck brought us here.

By design clean air and cold wind polish 
the river lights, by design we are to live
in a new place.