A dream of life and death in East Village —
Narrow, sterile walls that I skim with hesitant fingertips as
I throw open, wedge Shakespeare into the sill, and ease through window
Curling, clutching knees into chest,
naked toes gently balancing over the iron grates of the fire escape.
Drunk voices floating upward through the warm August night,
Darkness and twinkle lights separate my nest from the Turkish bathhouse across the courtyard rooftops.