HENRY TAYLOR

YOU DON'T KNOW ALL THE PLACES

YOU TAKE ME TO

You look up from your book. "Who was Delmore Schwartz?"

So I look up from mine, say something about

the heavy bear, the bed in Plato's cave,

the sad end, and, pausing, recall a glimpse

of Delmore Schwartz walking up the left aisle

of the old Coolidge Auditorium

in mid-October of 1962,

a cigarette (not in those days forbidden)

between his fingers and between his lips,

the ember burning with such ferocity

that sparks and ash-flecks danced away from it

as if it were itself a thing alive,

almost beyond the fierce control of the poet

who meanwhile leaned his head away from smoke

and squinted ahead, proceeding to the exit.

First published in TRP’s 25th Anniversary issue, Fall 2003; copyright © 2003 by Tar River Poetry.

All rights reserved.