One American Summer
And what next for kicks on earth,
Ginsberg wrote in one of his journals.
The August night opens like a cut.
All those stories I wrote with black netting
about you—I tell them to cab drivers now
and let them tell me the endings.
I step onto 15th Street and Irving Place
and there's no place for sadness on the sidewalk.
In the park's illegible language,
like a mistake, two boys
pass a cigarette between them.
What they're trying to forget is summer,
what they forget is each other.
In a train somewhere love stalls.
The gutter fills with someone's glitter
and it's boring but beautiful
how glitter has only one purpose.
Why I asked, if I asked,
to be here—I forgot.