1/26/08
I’ve spent a week waking up in other people’s apartments,
sleeping under their blankets,
between their sheets,
with the muffled lights and noises from the street shining in
through the window. It’s a kind of intimacy.
In New York everywhere there is talent, a beautiful face,
possibility.
Out of nowhere, he writes to me:
Bayfield was mentioned in the redeye.
Is that my nephew in my profile pic?
Will I be coming down to Chicago at all? (read: Am I still interested?)
He might be up north for Christmas.
I reply:
i'm in nyc right now--catching up with oberlin peeps when they have time for me in the midst of their busy nyc lives, realizing i really am living in a different world from them, a different pace, but it is still nice to visit.... to sleep in while they get up to go to work, to eat my breakfast on fire escapes and watch the pigeons and people rushing around. in a few minutes i'll leave anne's key under the mat and walk/train to the bronx to visit ellie at the cuny campus where she is
teaching art history.
His is as fleeting as the faces at the airport,
seen only in the length of a layover,
attractive at first glance,
and because I’ll likely never know the rest.
Like poetry,
I can love the city, in small doses.
Driving home I look out at the open road and the open sky,
the leaveless tress and a horizon unboxed by buildings,
and I think that is also the difference—
not as much to create upon, but so much more space to fill,
or choose to leave uncluttered.
