lovers crossing

aching in every step,
knowing that crossing
means moving apart,
after coming together

for a moment
for a minim of time
when time and space
dissipate and disappear

fear only encroaches
when we are crossing,
returning, to where
we wrought belonging

out of makeshift hopes;
forgotten ideals, that
experience weathers,
obligations steal

away from us; make us
mature, make us real—
unhappy, despondent,
empty, "fine" and forsaken

until we spree, individually
across the early morning
to meet, to make peace
with ourselves, if only

for a moment
for a minim of time
when time and space
dissipate and disappear

until we fear, we dither
and writhe, realizing
we are crossing
again.



The photo was taken on Park Avenue, somewhere between 33rd and 30th Streets, the melting snow wetting the streets and whetting my appetite to get out and take photos again...

The verse was wrought a few days later amidst the diunrnal void, the preoccupying ennui that compels me to dream and write and scheme my escape from these three grey-carpeted walls of corporate captivity.