I was waiting for you to call or
keeping the flies from crawling through
the crack between
the screen and the window.
It’s always something
trying to get in.
I don’t know what I believe anymore
but God is a good place to start
when the city is so beautiful,
when the gunshots sound like drumming.
It isn’t hope as much as settling into the forever
of a dream life
where people are the color of their light.
Faces lit up electric
or dull dirty as their money.
It is easy to forget it all for a bike ride
at the first fist in a glass door,
this violence is gentle
and I was always a lady in brick
waiting for the walls to
undress themselves more
until we were all comfortable
waiting for God to whisper through the keyhole
forgetting the cord in the rain
late at night
I could hear it hissing
it’s always something
trying to get in,
it’s always the city blocks
cracked into body shaped pieces
or a silent phone
on the couch late at night
it’s always the kids who didn’t show up
when the sky
let its stars
fall into the east river.