In August it’s hard not to want –

everything heavy with it – ginkgo fruit

rots on sidewalks, sweat falls down spines,

the whole beast city breathes in smog and breathes out

low clouds dropping lightning. Confused,

a little, reading subway signs

for revelation, it all comes up

wonder – which pre-historic lizard

dragged itself up into daylight just

so you could buy Calvin Klein underwear

and forget to call your mom on purpose?

Who’s your manager, Saint Sebastian?

Maimonides? What day of the week

is it? How did you get this number?

Rumi, I told you to stop calling

my motel. I need to be alone

for a long time, ride the empty train

over the bridge back and forth, commune

with Whitman above the East River.

Where else do you go to ask when summer

cherry pit spits questions into your lap?

Whose ghost do I see on street corners?

When does the weight lift? What do I do

with this little bit of time I’ve caught

to live inside? What do I do now

I want to eat every apple, seed

stem core? Who belongs, who decides?

Does want end with get? And if not –

————————————–

Birch Wiley called us from Brooklyn, NY.

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