Final Night, in Allston

            And trees unrooted left their place
                                                      - John Dryden

Let this line be the arrow
            returning us both
       to that time on Commonwealth
when we drank placebos, 

dreamt of Vermont farms
            and talked about operas
       I knew nothing of. You gave arias
special resonance and form, 

explained with great passion
            theories of the spheres.
       Consider this: I even seemed to hear
celestial humming risen 

above the buzz of other barflies
            and the cherrywood facade.
       We needed one more cider for the road
to hide from what we realized.

Brett Foster's writing has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Image, Kenyon Review, Poetry East, and Raritan. His first book of poems will be published with Northwestern University Press.