jet leg of the heart

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.

 

and yet

'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.