When I drink
I’m the only one here:
a nun with baggage,
a scholar duck-walking,
a shard for archeologists
above the Manhattan Fault.
An exile from Afghanistan
might find his mountains.
I look for silos
on the tops of buildings:
penthouse treebelts,
breaks of shadow.
When I drink I live alone,
a piece of the skyline
going out
like ice and alcohol,
in the pattern of light.
– from “Journey” by Kathleen Norris