Burrow

A new voice seeps into your blood stream. It rushes past your temples like a river, or like spring in the lilac trees. You do not sleep. When the alarm rings it is still dark and you have just the time to think fall before it evaporates. Splurge on a car and drive in silence across the bridge; see the old pasta factory careen into the gentrified metropolis, see the waterfront buildings burst forth like mushrooms. But then, over the back of an airplane wing, see steady, reliable Empire State Building weather the storm unyielding. I toss and turn; it remains. We walked past the old apartment at 28th and Lex and I thought, I have a history here. I have loved and lost and tended my roots; I, too, built something new on these streets and hoped I would one day become unyielding, inevitable. Turn the pages as I go and stack the years like notebooks on a shelf.

Wonder how they read, should somebody else pick them up.