Riverside

A day winds itself beneath your feet, twists and turns in the strange ways of a life. Every now and then, you strike a turn of phrase that seems you to bring you joy, seems to shake you from your slumber, and you remember the curlicue magic of the word, so long dormant under the weight of your darkness. He speaks to you of Mexico, of poetry festivals in New Orleans, of finding home in the American West, and you contemplate what it means to live an entire life. The East Village lies quiet, I write creaky poetry into its evening, and remember the madness I tried to follow into its avenues, and what remains. 

What remains is the seeds to rebuild, though. 

What remains is that this city has been burned and beaten for centuries, and yet we keep coming, yet we keep stitching it together in accordance with our dreams. It was always better just before, and of course the truth is that isn't truth at all. New York is always perfect, you are the one who is fallible, you are the one who is human. I look at apartment listings, I look at job prospects. That which will come, will come. 

The word is a seed
which grows anywhere you
Make it.