Urge to journey — as when you see a stretch
of New York City streets, expanse to ocean:
a both here or there. At times you reach
Hudson’s edge. At times, deep Atlantics of longing.
At times, a sinking. At times, a vista: new Jhelum just ahead.
* * *
“Some didn’t make it. Some did.”
You gaze upon bedroom hanger, how the suits
used to stack, hide bevy of shoes. But now, band-
less, shoes peek out, spilling sorrows or new destinations
unpaired.
* * *
“Some didn’t make it. Some did.”
The windows miss their workers. The walls miss
their buttresses. The workers miss their chatter,
how a meal brought plenty, how a scent could
waft into a smokeless ascension, how odor never was/charred.
* * *
“Some didn’t make it. Some did.”
How a rainbow is weightless, how it can carry
wait. How your heart carries memory, footsteps
of yesterday’s refugee, song of tomorrow’s
compatriots. You chalk a rainbow across side-
walks, make an affiliation of sky & earth, song
& silence, those made & unmade & ready to be
made, this world &
this world, and yet
again, now changed — again — this world & this world.