With distance, anything becomes cupped electric—
the memory of a hip’s shadow,

a faraway touch. You know my limits,
the reverie cage. A certain choreography

to the way space grows, en pointe
and ossifying—a new city forgetful

of its whispers, its choices, its birds. Here,
slowly strange, only the distracted fly lingers

so attracted to that sweet whatever. I am calling,
junk-verse,  telephone cord—do you hear me?

__

I used to live in Harlem, right by 125th street where the 1 train surfaces above ground and used to grace its way in front of my 5th floor walk-up. Although a constant (however reliable) nuisance, the rhythm of the sound and movement drove me to write this poem. Reading Franz Wright and Lucie Brock-Broido at the time also helped as well.