Hand in hand the blind child and his mother stand admiring the new cherry blossoms.
— Bashō
Snuggled in the corner among English-speakers and football loyalists among the cigar-soaked walls of the Dubliner, a place only years ago I frequented as “office” and of space efficient for writing such as this.
The last time I watched a game of the World Cup also was the eighteenth, when Germany faced Portugal. I had been in New York City as resident for no more than two weeks and sat across a table and a salmon brunch from my roommate, Allen, an alien before that day of audaciously hot summer city apartment-hunting walk we did (and to no avail).
God, I hadn’t met you yet.
Betwixt Williamson & Westshore, wait
W an icon of Present’s kin; perhaps an in
experience, the x-height a proper stand
For a tiny little Ampersand. Then & Now;
Now & Forever, and so and so on.
That curly twirl of a typographical trick cures a mortar
between Liquid bricks (someday seemed a prickly
kiss, but as is known not all will writhe & wilt)
stacked to the top of the Spillway wall.
I’ll sprint with wind here, many times have I
laid bare in the summer scorch, some
days I show my face, for worth. That in
accessibility that yelled anonymity
is the now impossibilty, thank GOD: I
need no one to be myself
under a cloud formless as it
Was, Is, and Yet.