in every beautiful brunette
that boards the 6 train.
there is poetry
all over this city
and I read
"A Night in a World"
by Heather McHugh
in the reflected faces of passersby.
the poetics just come
with the inspiration of this place,
with the movement of the past,
pushing past the future.
but I wish I could read your poems,
alas I cannot
for you have forsaken them.
it's not you,
because it's not a kicking wolf,
and you would have your hair up
in a messy bun.
it's never you,
and it never will be.