Letting go
is an ornamental
exercise-

like mixing fancy words
and throwing them like cooked pasta
to see what sticks;

sometimes it’s
“fundamentals of rigorous thinking”
and sometimes it’s “I love you”
– both of which are better kept secret
so you don’t spill like an untried youth
embarrassing yourself
with verve.

I’ve learned to spit out
the most self-immolating
distractions.

The hard part
is keeping the joy of falling again
to yourself.

I was so damned surprised
to find Lou Reed leaning on the lamppost,
I forgot I was carrying a bag of apples.
They fell and he laughed, à basso.
When I could tear myself away
from his saucer-eyes,
I realized two things:
we were so close, our toes were touching,
and Jim Carroll was standing beside me,
looking up at the flickering light.

An old New York was floating
like a proscenium in a school play
and the two men were chanting
while I watched smoke and buildings rise.
It was a greasy dust –
like modern tar pits.
Lou was humming
and Jim gave the words
– like a filthy epitaph for a quickie
against a brick wall
‘those were the days her thighs gave way…’
and I was her
and I couldn’t stand
so I leaned on Jim
but he was so slight and light and faded,
we crumpled like newspaper
and blew toward the pier.
Lou said ‘wild!’ and sauntered to catch up.

I forget what happened next.
But I tasted brine
in the morning
and my hair was flying free
across a stained pillow.
I’m sure I can find that lamppost again
and maybe the smoke
will still taste of poetry and beer
when the old town fades to a street corner.

It’s complicated remaining a simple child,
especially for a woman nearing 46:
loving the smell of the bread drawer
and getting frustrated at how delicate mechanical pencils are;
forgetting math but remembering birthdays;
keeping a secret island going
for decades- a place no one else is allowed, where naked joy is mandatory;
hoping for mail and ignoring disappointment;
staring so long at the sky so everything wears a halo for the afternoon;
being satisfied with made-up tunes for constantly running mental scenes that require a soundtrack in a minor key;
and trying everything by licking it first.

I dreamt of a river, slow and icy
around my limbs.
The floe was seductive
and old
and a deep blue.

When I awoke,
Spring was a surprise.

The cold sweat of carrying too much too far
when you have miles to go
before you sleep.
A keyboard in another language
(we speak plainest in the riddle of prayer).
Joyful reunions with lizards and twilight.
Rocking into night,
leading with the hips.
Confusion of falling crazy in love
with someone who’s fallen into a zen state.
Water, water everywhere without
a ship to sink,
we all float (in the end).