Today, my love,
leaves are thrashing the wind
just as pedestrians are erecting again the buildings of this drab
and our lives, as I lose track of them,
are the lives of others derailing in time and
getting things done.
Impossible to make sense of any one face
or mouth, though
is clear, and you are miles
Let your pure
space crowd my heart,
that we might stay awhile longer amid the flying
I swear it,
isn’t going anywhere.
— Ralph Angel, “This,”Twice Removed: Poems. (Sarabande Books, 2001)