New York Poem

1. He does not want to call or say anything so I said I miss you and I do wish you would.

2. They said maybe saying “please call” would help. Doesn’t. Certainly he is not inclined to speak, nor does he wish me to speak or to let my desire be known. He wishes us to be even, to be inside the silence together, as in an agreement.

3. There is no doubt about dreams. We dream together and apart. We dream eachother’s hair beneath the breath of summer, the curtains shake and go silent. I dream my love for him in stone and steps. My love is Rome. My love bears the steps and the sun. My love is under an animal sky, bright and hard. His love is not so. His love is the person inside of him loving me. It is a sleep. He calls, he does not, the cars, the air switches.

4. We call inside of a jar. We sneak into church. We say “hi” to people, to the dead, the piece of blue light on the wall.

5. I love the people who can do nothing but love eachother below. The people in the dark ground, with their ears cinched and their eyes down. The flowers of June and the flowers of Fall. Blossoms breaking out of their mouths. The people in love with the train, with the bus, the bodega, the rows and rows. They call and they don’t call. They are forever in the space of someone else’s body. The space created by a heap of stone. They are what they are looking at in the dark, what they are fixing up on the shore, what collapsed at night into soft and righteous birds.

6. Begin melody, with the voice learning the sounds of words, that breaks the words in, that breaks them and stops. The voice of the air shaking the leaves, the voice of homes, of light on the hands of the earth. Begin ringing and ringing and stopping on me. Voice that burns out my thinking, spoons out my thinking. Begin in explanation, the tourists are listening to baseball, tourists ordering chocolate coffee. This feeling of beginning, of being called upon, being on the other end. It is a voice, a trilling, a fence of sound, in the tangle of summer, it’s roots. Voice of my mother. Voice of my mother blacked out. A voice unto the green June, poppyseeds and broken eggs, the voice of the pool. It is disguised as a discretion; Taped! Taped! playing on the bus, blasting the rain, voices busying, their voices rising aught they be called, their rising, their arms raised, and look at the maniacal sky at the food of peace.

7. I am waiting for someone do you fucking mind. I in summer sweater. I in my sandwich shop. Wait to be called. I am waiting for the person of my life, stop. I am joined to a table and taken from the table and queried and waited on. The other end is a rustle, a lurch of things being made for me.

8. Again the bells of June again they call up the death confetti. The plane dips down. The plane of thread. There are all these things to being aloft. Levels of shadows of clouds. A formulation toward. The white hair on your arms I am speaking on. There are so swinging up. This white cloud on your head, asleep. The seat that is next up, a shoe in, it is white. In the broken air of the aisle, is wearing down whitely, safely down.

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