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I'm sitting here,
neighbor's backyard,
crosslegged,
almost 9 am.
And while the coffee,
I made earlier,
surrenders its acquired warmth
to the spring morning,
I watch birds and flowers grow
and liquids rise and fall in trees.

The phone.. I heard it and remembered
every time it brought me you.
the letters, lives and german gardens,
busses, buzzing with student chatter,
river, too small to have drowned me,
parents, left at home alone,
ice-cream cones and blueberry waffles,
cold milk, hidden in the fridge,
pastries and small creamy tartlets,
franzbrötchen and my pens and papers,
picnics, when I lay all quiet,
staring at the sky and friends,
with my thoughts, all scattered nowhere,
trying to know what you had done.
all my flowers, white and peaceful,
all my future, still unclear,
all of Paris, Rodin, Degas,
all the streets I had been lost in.

This is morning, in New York,
while my head is heavy, clouded,
and Brahms sounds like Rachmaninoff.