I cling to my books, talk to
myself and a cab driver, find
him out of the blue, white
plum wine, his unhasty grin,
sashimi, we drink, I spin at
him, we cross the city, summer’s
unsteady, we look at art, I
make up words, East 4th is
uneven, I lean, the heat, the
sidewalks break, my hair twirls,
his eyebrows connect, I whirl,
he takes me home, I pretend, he
asks me to sign my name on the
horizontal hair across his forehead,
I write all over his square face
with sake, warm haiku, he
asks me again, he’s sure, the
line is so straight that I do.
This article appears in March 2012.
