The waters of the East River were blue,
bluer than I'd ever let myself expect,
bluer than the sky today.

The sight of the lights and shadows
Swimming over the passengers wasn't something
I'd known I was missing.

A few uncharacteristic craning necks;
I wasn't the only one
Newly displaced from below-ground.

Outside,
It was bright enough to color-blind;
The view from the window
For one moment
Rendered a monochrome tableau
Of New York's industrial past.

Then the red brick buildings,
Precarious window units and
Makeshift curtains of every color.

Between these-
Between these--
Heart-stopping views of
Sun-washed streets like rivers,
The sunroofs and food carts
Glinting like silver scales
In the early evening glare.

Each time I surged forward,
Gripped the overhead pole convulsively,
Drank in that view
As greedily as anything;

I'd never loved the city
Like I loved it from fifty feet up.


And the walk home was
Novel from the west;
Suddenly the sidewalks ramble-wide,
Suddenly the parks,
Suddenly the people.

A block from my apartment,
A teenager looped his finger
Through the dangling handle
Of my grocery bag as we passed-
Pulled gently,
Not tugging away,
Leading me into a turn.

We were facing each other then,
Even as our feet carried us in different directions;
"Can't I take you out?"

His youth and my mood made it charming-
His wide eyes and narrow shoulders
Held none of the threat
That comes with a man's stature-
And I couldn't help
But soften the no with a smile
Before carrying on
Towards home.

the altar clouds break:
cry holy, holy, holy,
swooning in the sunlight,
fingers threading grass,
sacrilegious lifting face to sun
instead of sky,
cry holy, holy, and think of horses,
manes aflame,
your lips were taught heavenly father
but cry apollo just the same.

Late snow and incense;

A copy of The Essential Rumi laid next to the oranges we left out for Venus last night.

It is springtime and it seems we could learn every kind of magic the world has to offer us.

It's like you don't know and that's the worst thing,
When I stumble in late from a night well out,
And bleed you out on pen and paper,
Flush you out like the alcohol.

It helps, doesn't it?

God, so much.

I'm still writing poems to you all the time,
Smearing ink off the dry erase board
With the heel of my hand,
So I'll wake up hungover
With black palms and overlapping words
Mapped all over this white board.

In theory all of my feelings for you
Get washed away this way,
Every bottle of wine anew,
But in truth I whisper them in my sleep
And know them still at sunrise
Like it's a surprise after all these years
That I still love you
Like I do