by Edward Hirsch (b. 1950)
He couldn’t remember what propelled him
out of the bedroom window onto the fire escape
of his fifth-floor walkup on the river,
so that he could see, as if for the first time,
sunset settling down on the dazed cityscape
and tugboats pulling barges up the river.
There were barred windows glaring at him
from the other side of the street
while the sun deepened into a smoky flare
that scalded the clouds gold-vermilion.
It was just an ordinary autumn twilight—
the kind he had witnessed often before—
but then the day brightened almost unnaturally
into a rusting, burnished, purplish red haze
and everything burst into flame:
the factories pouring smoke into the sky,
the trees and shrubs, the shadows
of pedestrians singed and rushing home …
There were storefronts going blind and cars
burning on the parkway and steel girders
collapsing into the polluted waves.
Even the latticed fretwork of stairs
where he was standing, even the first stars
climbing out of their sunlit graves
were branded and lifted up, consumed by fire.
It was like watching the start of Armageddon,
like seeing his mother dipped in flame …
And then he closed his eyes and it was over.
Just like that. When he opened them again
the world had reassembled beyond harm.
So where had he crossed to? Nowhere.
And what had he seen? Nothing. No foghorns
called out to each other, as if in a dream,
and no moon rose over the dark river
like a warning—icy, long-forgotten—
while he turned back to an empty room.