This whole poem is just
a dumb little
song
for all the long shadows
gradually colonizing city
street corners;
whether dilations
of mirth
or gloom, of exuberant
sky-
scrapers or contentious
nursing homes,
of empty luxury hi-
rises, or
garbage-
crammed and abandoned
mail boxes—it doesn't
matter, so
long as
today and ever
after,
they continue
to afford us
that unconscious-
but very
conspicuous space
in which—not
to think
but simply
reiterate
all of our prior
versions of things,
to bravely, if even
for a
minute,
barely contemplate
the sheer
density
and
the thickness
of every saved
draft waiting
weightless—back
at home.
