A tree grows on the windowsill across the street, impossible on a narrow ledge, stretching green paintbrushes toward the sky. Grow where you are planted, literally. We drove north in the early morning, unfamiliar fingertips hugging the curves of the parkway, curves of the nape of your neck, unfamiliar in this neck of the woods, would you like to know what it all looks like in the morning, in the fall, in the future?
I came home drunk last night, weaving a rickety bicycle down sleeping St. Mark's and discovering an armchair on the curb, dragging it up four flights of stairs and trying not to wake the neighbors. They say New York took a beating, but I don't know. I have long conversations with strangers in the street, I find little winks from the city in unknown corners, in the morning I wake to birdsong and the super's brother wants to marry me, it's not New York if you didn't fight for it in one way or another. A woman rear ends my car while we are both looking for parking. My cheeks are flushed with sunshine.
The time has come to make good on our promises.
What will you let bleed out,
what will your heart let be
known?
No comments:
Post a Comment