SUSAN AIZENBERG
L'Heure Bleue
(reprinted by permission of
Southern Illinois University Press; "L'Heure Bleue" previously
appeared in Prairie Schooner)
Pigeons furl the silk of their oilslick
wings and doze on the limed shoulders
of forgotton generals, while the last
commuters descend to the subways,
where they'll sway above their papers,
reflections streaming through the rapid
dark. Christened bleue by the French,
this is the hour when evening raises
its azure wand and the light smolders,
cool center of a candle flame,
the five ring on an archer's target,
a few stars the silvery nibs of arrows
just breaking through. Slender boys
in waiters' tuxes snap starched linens
over tables for two, as cabbies scour
backseats clean of the day's real
detrius, and one by one, all over
the city, vapor lamps spread their sodium
veils like some fast-traveling rumor,
gild the drowsing streets, graffitied
buildings, until even the harbor, the river
freighted with sludge, even the smoke-
stacks percolating a foul snow of ash
and grit over the Jersey Palisades,
have gone
soft-focus, the whole town
a Chamber of Commerce photo or moony
perfume ad. Prelude to the strict black
of night, this is the moment we may
imagine the hiss of nylon, the garter
a woman slides, high on her leg,
for a man dressing, even now, in his best
suit, when we find ourselves humming
Gershwin tunes, thinking romance,
possibility—of glamour we know
better
than by day. Which is why the woman
lingers, her heart beating like a bird's
does, too quickly, why the man hesitates
beneath her window, his face chiaroscuro
in blue shadow, a square of light. 
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