I labor in anonymity,
silly poems
about Ailey girls,
not much else.
An internet
of histories,
just the backside of a mountain
simply following the sky.
It's understandable
why darkness
comes for us
despite singing warnings.
Dancing in a laundromat
while a tiger walks by,
and I grind my teeth
and grind into her eyes.
My dancing partner of goodness
down the grocery aisle,
killing perfume,
and leaving me bleak.
I'll be back in New York City in July
and I will wait everyday
on a bench in Union Square
or the poetry section at Strand.