I cried
when I read a small
poem by Zukofsky, and
well here it is:

Wire cage flues
          on
the roofs:

Paper ash —whole
        sheets
  in gusts—

Flawed by winds
           fly
like doves.

At first it seems nothing,
but sing them softly on the lips:
Something quintessential
something I'd not yet encountered within
my twenty years of life. Newness.
And from something writ long before me.
There were others, I know this
there are many amongst us,
yes, I remember

Once, I was not
alone. And yet
suddenly
—all at once—
I am alone.