Poetry | Touchstone

I. Wake up to an opened window and the aftertaste of 99¢’s worth in Welch’s soda and street slice– Stranger, you slept in a city that never does– but a midnight you made plans for morning in your notes app, adjacent a musical’s motif: …don’t let him look back, Eurydice… but you can’t stop Orpheus in the streets if he’s searching for your hand. Songbird in a sweater vest steps out into Times Square; “I’m walking here,” you sing. You sing while walking there.