086/100 • NEW YORK
Floating on a wire
over the cars on the bridge,
the river below.
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Floating on a wire
over the cars on the bridge,
the river below.
What’s new is new, but
old things have memories of
people and places.
A crack and a flash —
the fire hydrant in the sky
drenches the city.
Bodega flowers:
bright reminders of sunshine
on a cloudy day.
The joy of snail mail —
both giving and receiving —
just never gets old.
A picture is not
just a picture, and a word
is not just a word.
A bench in the shade,
wet hair on a cool pillow —
a heat wave, broken.
It’s like writer’s block
for photographers; what will
make me shoot again?
I’m suspicious of
words like “effortless,” “self-made,”
and “independence.”
A book and a breeze —
my evenings are simple
when it's this damn hot.
A glimmer of light
on the tracks, a rush of air —
finally, the train.
Sneaking up on me
and my snack like a wild beast,
an urban hunter.
They don’t care about
you or me; they only care
about lightning — blink.
The least I can do —
a blackened oval — is not
enough, on some days.
My indulgences
were not well-documented —
just take my word for it.
Grasping for beauty
wherever we can find it
and holding on tight.
What superpower
would you choose? I’ve chosen mine
and how I’d use it.
We’re wired and wild
from too much sun — summer is
not even here yet.
Tetris with clothing —
trying to fit my closet
into this luggage.
A long week, over;
a fresh weekend beginning —
thankful for Friday.