olive-it
(Give rise to the 10th of Santa's reindeer - Olive the other reindeer.)
from The City Your poems are like a dark city centre. Your novel, your stories, your journals, your letters, are suburbs Of this big city. The hotels are lit like office blocks all night With scholars, priests, pilgrims. It's at night Sometimes I drive through. I just find Myself driving through, going slow, simply Roaming in my own darkness, pondering What you did. Nearly always I glimpse you - at some crossing, Staring upwards, lost, sixty year old.