All Poets Welcome
For Lewis Warsh
He calls me into his office, gives me
a copy of The Origin of the World and
Our Friends Will Pass Among You Silently.
I stare at his bookshelves, half-listening.
He smiles and I recognize it’s possible to
dream without sleeping. This must be how
a tiger feels when it becomes aware of its stripes.
On paper, growls are fragments, each stanza
a grain of dust in an hourglass. His gray sweater
includes threads of second generation
St. Mark’s Poetry Project Wednesday readings.
“Take my long poem workshop and read
the archived letters of New York School poets
at Fales Library. I’ll grant you access.”
The pen hums. Outside, Washington Square radiates
with skateboards and dancing lights at dusk.
One day, I’ll give these moments names, place them
in a Mason jar, and they will be inseparable.