Ease

You read more poetry, it reminds you how the waves of your language prefer to fall, how the sharp edges of prescribed language do little to soothe your beating heart, to make sense of the world. I sit in the car waiting for the street sweeper, and it's New York civility at its kindest, this coordinated effort of parallel parking in tandem when at last the great machine has passed. There's a rhythm to this city that will not be shaken out of its foundation, we are still here. I miss everything, but longing is just another word for love, and so I will endure. 

I return to the apartment and lose track of my path but it is only temporary, everything is only temporary and the thing that matters is you find your way back. There is work to be done and I am here to do it. There is poetry left to write and I'll be damned if I'm not here to write it. Trust the process, 

now that it is here.