The sycamores are leafing out

on west fourth street and I am weirdly old

yet their pale iridescence pleases me

as I emerge from the subway into traffic

and trash and patchouli gusts—now that I am retired

pleasure is permitted to me

I have less

interfering with my gaze now

what I see I see clearly

and with less grievance and anger than before

and less desire: it is not that I have conquered these passions

they have worn themselves out

if I smile admiring four Brazilian men

playing handball on a sunny concrete court

shouting in Portugese

thin gloves protecting their hands from the sting of the flying ball

their backs like sinewy roots, gold flashing on their necks

if I watch them samba with their shadows

torqued like my father fifty years ago

when the sons of immigrant Jews

played fierce handball in Manhattan playgrounds

—if I think these men are the essence of the city

it is because of their beauty

since I have learned to be a fool for beauty