| Three of us here, all young and stupid, eating, drinking, sleeping in rhythm. We’re not the same, our lives too full now to mesh like kids at summer camp, so the rhythm’s all synco- pated—what makes it | endless inspiration. When I say inspiration, I mean I trust things will bend without losing their homes in the dirt. Would you believe? They mapped all the trees in Brooklyn! Well, not the ones | other ways. No good excuse for the man standing on Broadway and Kossuth by the stairs every night, holding a plastic cup— my standard response, I’m sorry. I barely think anymore, so many |
| so rich, offbeat. I loved the Dr. John you put on last night, In the Right Place: too obvious? Sometimes it’s easy as light, only sometimes not, I wish I knew with certainty. I wake up to a catalpa outside | on private property, but the blocks are filled with littleleaf lindens, thornless honeylocusts, a swamp white oak just outside 81 Stanhope: ugly, gentri-chic, no thought for how we might live | failures of empathy I allow. I lock myself in my room most days. I need a warm bath: Big Thief and Harmony in Ultraviolet oozing through my door. Not always open—I hope you’ll understand. Three |
| my window and wind made visible in broad paper leaves, long limbs stretching, (sometimes the subtlest movement, a tiny rhythmic gesture), or else the whole trunk leans! Forever indifferent: | inside. We don’t approve the sink design: always a mess. No Ailanthus altissima nearby. I’m relieved. Too many already; I respect their tenacity, but those lessons can be learned | of us here, who knows how long, and rooms to fill with books and plants: growing an orchard, each of us careful to leave enough space for things to multiply and tangle like vines. |
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