They whisper
snowflake, at times.
Others,
white bitch.
Streets of Harlem.
Squinting eyes
wandering,
looking beyond brownstone facades and projects’ yards.
I navigate where there’s no water.
Diviner for the cradle of life.
An IPhone as a stick.
Homesick?
Always a bit.
Sick of loneliness?
At times.
How many homes.
How many more.
History books do not contain the stories of those who write them.
A pen that scratches,
keyboard that rasps.
Life is craving for nuances.
Balance in the unbalanced.
Acrobat – google says of equilibrista.
Reading the program of the independent party in local elections.
Back home,
the first.
Opening national press
driven by sex scandals.
I feel shame,
transnationally.
When Amsterdam bumps in 120th
it is Manhattan that yells
my daily symphony.
I find familiar cracks in eyes
moist by Brooklyn bourbon.
Wet hasty hands
thrilled by intimacy.
I hear of a mountain train
which doesn’t stop at Eboli
after all,
where two christs
make voiceless plans
over an Etruscan triclinium.
Time has come for
snowdrops
and other stories.
New York City, 15 May 2014
