Well, the sun has fallen on New York again.
Weather app alerts me of a seductive
68 degrees. Smogging the street, there she is:
sunlight shit thick in the unexpected hot air.
Restaurateurs dawn their awnings,
unstack their patio furniture like June
never left us. Fried meats plead my
nostrils, and it must be summer. Against
all odds, it's March again. It's March
for the first time. Oh, Lucy, you’ve been divorced
for almost a year now. You kept dishes,
the rug you can’t stand being your rug alone, the dog,
she will become, impossibly, your dog. Just yours. You
think of them every day, but it's not like you'd think,
they are a mere fact of your past, like your yellow bike.
your yellow childhood bedroom, and Amy, who you
think of every day, whose laugh made middle school possible,
and who you hardly spoke to for years, who died her first year
in college, who had yellow hair that curled the way you always
wanted yours, who would've loved New York. Who might
have visited you like many might have visited you if only
things were different. Who is near alive in memory. You lost
your spouse, your bike, your home, your friend. Grief
relates itself to you differently with each separate love
and from a distance all of your poems are pregnant,
laying on their side, waiting. Loss, too, is a fat bosom.
Now, when you say "I love New York," you mean
love with an uppercase "O." A love with no grip,
a love interrupted by wonder, a love that falls
into itself (again and again) as its rings stretch wide.

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