when I wake up
it’s still dark outside
and I hear the
poems flutter.
they fly around
like moths blinded by the light,
bump into walls,
can’t find their way out.

in 2004
she wrote
K.I.T.
and the phone number
in my yearbook
as if digits last longer.

i put a teabag into the orange cup.
black tea,
it smells of peach and ginger.
i pour hot water over it,
add sugar –
one spoonful, two spoons, three.
a lot of sugar.
no milk, no lemon,
just the way she likes it.

it was Easter –
my second time at the big apple.
my father took me to see the twins.

it’s daytime,
and a wide, swift river of
faces
is flowing down Sixth avenue,
rarely stopping
for
traffic lights.

I write things that need to be written,
but
sometimes
friends ask me
for writing
pointers,
with trust.
as if I knew
what I am doing.

it
drips
in
frigid
pulp

we‘ve spent
several hours
of several days
flying kites,
and searching for
the Balance
in the wind