In Life on July 5, 2011 at 10:53 am


I fall in love on the subway.  Yesterday… a man gets on the D headed south.  My arm wraps loosely around a corner pole, The Leaf Storm and other stories hanging.  All I get is a whiff: tweed coat, blue jeans, blond hair and beard.  Yet he anchors his weight over my shoulder.  His chest to my back, he bends and gazes upon my book, casually, like a lover.  For seven stations I breathe the hum of him and we are as bodies in a dream.

The man gets off because he was always going to.  I lose him against the sea.


Coming up I am bad.  Ooh, I am bad; it wears me like a coat.  With a heavy gut a heavy head a heavier heart do I the slow city march, one foot two foot dead eyes snowshoes and dirt.  But I look down at my journal.  It spreads the width of my hand and on its cover the quote, “there are always flowers for those who want to see them.”

Oh!  I look up and find myself before a flower vendor.  In dead city winter, eyes blink and are instructed bright pink, deep blue, fire orange once more.


I lock eyes with a bassist sitting behind his case on the G.  And in that moment of stark and pregnant pause, we break the wall like shoelaces newly knotted and hang there – another star for memory’s sky, already dead and gone yet gleaming.


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