L train station, 14th Street. January 22nd, 2014
A freezing day. A bundled up poet. She was reading a book. Even through the scarf and hat I could tell she was a poet.
oh no! once again
is it even possible to think this fast?
the half Dana-thought I was
mouthing, the dream about a
singularity turning to a mirror;
will any of it –
the texture was so grimy black, I
wanted to ask someone what
to do with it.
I censored most of the intentions.