Kissing Stieglitz Good-Bye

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Every city in America is approached
through a work of art, usually a bridge
but sometimes a road that curves underneath
or drops down from the sky. Pittsburgh has a tunnel—

you don’t know it—that takes you through the rivers 
and under the burning hills. I went there to cry 
in the woods or carry my heavy bicycle
through fire and flood. Some have little parks—

San Francisco has a park. Albuquerque 
is beautiful from a distance; it is purple
at five in the evening. New York is Egyptian, 
especially from the little rise on the hill

at 14-C; it has twelve entrances
like the body of Jesus, and Easton, where I lived, 
has two small floating bridges in front of it 
that brought me in and out. I said good-bye

to them both when I was 57. I’m reading
Joseph Wood Krutch again—the second time.
I love how he lived in the desert. I’m looking at the skull 
of Georgia O’Keeffe. I’m kissing Stieglitz good-bye.

He was a city, Stieglitz was truly a city
in every sense of the word; he wore a library 
across his chest; he had a church on his knees. 
I’m kissing him good-bye; he was, for me,

the last true city; after him there were 
only overpasses and shopping centers, 
little enclaves here and there, a skyscraper 
with nothing near it, maybe a meaningless turf

where whores couldn’t even walk, where nobody sits, 
where nobody either lies or runs; either that 
or some pure desert: a lizard under a boojum, 
a flower sucking the water out of a rock.

What is the life of sadness worth, the bookstores 
lost, the drugstores buried, a man with a stick 
turning the bricks up, numbering the shards, 
dream twenty-one, dream twenty-two. I left

with a glass of tears, a little artistic vial.
I put it in my leather pockets next
to my flask of Scotch, my golden knife and my keys, 
my joyful poems and my T-shirts. Stieglitz is there

beside his famous number; there is smoke
and fire above his head; some bowlegged painter 
is whispering in his ear; some lady-in-waiting 
is taking down his words. I’m kissing Stieglitz

good-bye, my arms are wrapped around him, his photos 
are making me cry; we’re walking down Fifth Avenue; 
we’re looking for a pencil; there is a girl
standing against the wall—I’m shaking now

when I think of her; there are two buildings, one 
is in blackness, there is a dying poplar;
there is a light on the meadow; there is a man
on a sagging porch. I would have believed in everything.

© Gerald Stern