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This poem is taken from PN Review 79, Volume 17 Number 5, May - June 1991.

Out of Europe Peter Hughes
 
(I) MANHATTAN STONE

Or how they would dance in the churches of Harlem
north of Columbia where the heights roll down into
   shadow
and ALBANY points whiter into Saturday light

If I end here in the land of denial, a wind off the Hudson
blowing over the Palisades, the cargo thunder
air drying my eyeballs, final myopia, will carry me home

Nothing here is the way I conceived it: women driving
   alone
lift their knees, from gas to brake, sculling the clutch
and the gear shifts on the wheel like the bolt of a gun

I lost in Spain, along with a war and my hopes of peace
driving with one who held a cigaret like a shell
like a cartridge,the word snicks shut in third gear, going
   uptown
...


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