13.

The cusp of the dark falls on Central Park

And your face, as if we never met, alight,

Your son in the stroller, a stranger,

And only in my mind there is more.

I have named a place in a song

And made the ripple of words drift

Against convention. I imagine a love

Without stain or boils: no wrong

Have I done you, woman, passerby.

I have no curious dreams where I name you

A character. You are, nameless to me, more

To those you know than any poem can say.

This poet, poem, gets lost on Fifth Avenue

And you live on this earth on your own terms.