A poem about a place and time

I'm noticing that my eyes are different. When I go to edit poems I have fewer problems chopping, moving, refining. Here is a poem I started in 2009. It feels right to me now. Let me know what you think.

Still Morning After The Festival

Some days it’s almost unbearable

the wet pavement

the cold air that seems to blow out

of a childhood place into early November

has it ever been this quiet in the city?

for two miles the old bicycle

disappears beneath me

I drift without trying

hearing only the wind with trees

and above that

the wind with the wind

under the wind the lake

outshines the gallery houses

joggers glisten and pass

without anything to say

the same birds that have always

been birds stare out

from the garden oaks

dropping like leaves

but returning

unsure of their departure

what is this cold

air, this movement

that makes my eyes burn and tears

dry against my face?

before I left I watched
the small festival, a city
unmake itself

the cars and trucks disappeared

the food was gone

the booths were empty
in the lawns before the capitol

light blew into them
over the tablecloths

the smell of books, damp leaves

I walked through each

between unbuttoned walls

touching the edge of a memory

where people once stood

when I get home, I said,

I will sit beneath the magnolia

tree and listen longer, I will sit
and watch the tops of the pines
swimming in place, touching
the edge of something

not quite gone

not saying goodbye

or hello to anyone