The moon, you say, as explanation.
I don’t ask for more.
I wait in the East Broadway subway breeze,
consider the intentions of a moonless night.
A girl in metal tattoo armor passes,
proud of her shoulders.
Painted people acknowledge each other,
like drifters and bikers.
Not this girl, in her long pink tank top
and tribal forearms.
She gets off at Second Avenue.
You know exactly how to be, you say.
As if I had a choice.
I return to the moon, its moods.
Art. A family member or boarder,
devoid of origin?
Can we pack our drives away
To wander with empty suitcases?
Will we merge poetry and sound and cum and blood?
Can we fuck out of bounds, without safe words,
against tenement walls?
The 6 train is slow as baseball.
At 14th, I push my way out, onto the 5.
I exit at 86th, lost,
as I sometimes am,
waking at 4AM,
too confused to
find the bedroom
I center myself.
toward light and music
Sick and tired of knowing
how to be.