Street Villanelle
I step onto the street near the 61b café where we meet—
pick up two wrinkled maple leaves, still green.
I notice each leaf has a blackened patch near its central vein.

 
We just spoke about the self, the I, the Who, Edwin Honig
refers to his poem about things your mind will not name.
I step onto the street near the 61b café where we meet—

 
how the writer seeks that central stalk,
the strong voice, freed and rooted at center.
I notice each leaf has a blackened patch near its central vein.

 
I start my rehearsal in an old school building down the block.
How images in the poems I move are tangible, visible.
I step onto the street near the 61b café where we meet—

 
images like the dark-eyed heat of want at poppy’s center,
a bait bucket worm-squirming, last week’s ice pellets.
I notice each leaf has a blackened patch near its central vein.

 
The Who, the I, the self, its relationship to voice.
Things we pick up, mirror what we have inside.
I step onto the street near the 61b café where we meet.
Each leaf, a blackened patch, unscarred vein.


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