new york city makes me anxious.
tranquility found in other places,
is lost between LaGuardia and our
front door. homelessness is part
of what it means to return.
Unheimlich, diese Sehnsucht.
time runs faster here just to keep
up with its residents. in other parts
of the world it is only mid march,
here we are crashing into August.
Sind wir Zuhause?
the grass is greener, (no doubt)
the sky bluer, the heart fonder
of that which one has only tasted
but not feasted on. one or two
hairs can be found in every crème brûlée.
'there is a world elsewhere'
perhaps we have returned again
a broken coriolanus, the mother
of all cities calling us back.
Die Freundschaft unserer Freunde,
and the only currency that will last,
finds us out each time and hands
us our boarding passes, NYC bound.
We arrive expectantly, a piece
of Christmas-in-July in our carry on.
There is a kind of holy gossip in the air
that can almost be bottled for safe keep:
the humidity and sweat of Brooklyn,
and a promise that all shall be well.