When we met

you told me you loved me.

The people were passing 

in an unusual rush.

The mood was like when someone falls down;

as if God pressed pause for a second to breathe.

And when my books flew into the crosswalk

and I saw the light 

I heard nothing but your scream.

It was sweet and it pulled me into the air

as if I was levitating,

hanging over the whole city 

with my arms numb

and my eyes wide shut. 

I stayed there for years

in that summer air

watching the ribbons holding my pages

fly like butterflies in the wind.

And when the horn blared 

and the tires skid left hard

and the fire hydrant broke

and the cold water spewed everywhere

and the woman with the Chanel bag stepped over me

and the sirens started up

I fell back to earth.

Your eyes had yet to leave me 

and the screaming words reverberated in my ears.

You said you loved me.

We were two strangers

waiting at an intersection

and you made me see the little patch of weeds

poking out of the street

and how dainty and strong and alive

the whole world around me was. 

You grabbed my hand

and pulled me to the other side of the street.

You looked at me 

and I looked at you.

And when you grabbed my hand 

and we began to walk toward 72nd street

I knew the stories were true.

The weeds were living 

and so was I.