There is not a single orange sailboat

on the pond in Central Park today.

I ride a bike from 110th St to 59th.

For a moment, as I coast

downhill, life flows through

me. Now I am back

to suspecting the world

might be trying to shake me loose.

Still, I must admit how beautiful

the light is.

A tree fell in last night’s storm.

With its roots

exposed

it looks like a woman

too busy for the salon.

You point up at sparrows on a

wire. In elementary school, my

family took in lovebirds. The

moment they entered our home all

they wanted was blood.

My mother

separated them.

Night after night they kept us awake,

squawking. On the fourth day, she

gave up and reintroduced them.

Finally, we slept. The next morning,

we woke to the lonely racket of one

bird, the other’s head parallel to his

body, connected by a single green

thread.