Descend the stairs to an East Village basement, leave the spring air behind – reluctant – greet new faces like old friends, you're not sure you put your own face on right, or chose the right one for the occasion. That's the problem with masks, you have to know which one you're wearing. Snaps for the readers though you didn't feel their heartbeat, you wonder in amazement at these groups of writers who want to venture into the world, who want to see their audience react to their turns of phrase. You only ever wanted to be alone with words, community sullies the fantasy you think. This is not the moment to air such a grievance.
Later, on Second Avenue, gentle spring rain on warm concrete sidewalk, little glimpses of poetry remind themselves to me I have
sunk so many years into these streets allowed
so much love to fill the cracks in the side walk I am
not sorry
Because when I stumble these streets now
the magic we built together is what
lifts me up and
carries me home.
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