The sun carves its jagged lines,
dances along the rocks of
Central Park, and so I yearn
for it, year for the golden drink
of another November, hair
in tendrils as I read, another
year making home of
this and other sacred rituals.
Once, living room party,
my socked feet, her lavender
sweater, somebody told me
New York chews you up,
spits you out three times,
if you stay, you belong here,
and I think I loved like that
for a while, bearing storms,
singing my belief in the sunrise.
A driver looks sideways and
his car drifts beneath him, this is
life: your story will be set
wherever you hang your
coat, love a scrape if you
insist on bringing home
the wild and taming it.
My coworker makes a
joke of my poems, my
shoulders shrug by reflex,
these lines are mine and
I love them, my lover
doodles imagery into
the margins, my skin
the favorite sweater I
will not outgrow, so very
home in this moment,
among the rocks, longing
for meaning, for symbolism,
forever.
