Morning, or Evening?
—Vincent Katz
Everywhere, right now, parents are making breakfast,
Older people waking up alone, another day
Walking down platform, seeing the flood of faces coming into the city,
One is taken, not by a Heinrich Böllian sense of dull sameness,
But rather that this is an epochal moment
We all share, we are all somehow in this together.
Repeated rhythms, every Thursday, placing coins or a bill or two
Into the open valise of the trumpeter always there—
Grand Central he plays, and the lineage, where that music flows from,
Where it is going, an undeniable story in our midst,
Woven into our fabric, that none, in their heart of hearts, can deny.
Important to be in one’s own head, not subject to advertising or even
others’ art.
Leaving tracks covered in snow, tracks in snow, rock imposing wall,
Cross the river, gain speed, struts protect the building from falling
down.
Clouds travel faster than houses, farther back, we pass towns,
Skirt highways, fly through wetlands,
Faster than speed, we are bringing information, ways of seeing:
Transmit focus to fingers on controls,
So blighted, threatened, scared as little children, terrified of own
ignorance.
This is a chapter; it will end,
And there will be another chapter, and that will end, and so on,
Until we come to the end of the book, and that’s that.
But the thing is, what did your book add up to, what did it say?
The Greeks believed your character determines your fate.
You can veer here and there, but ultimately something inside you,
the way you are,
Has already determined the kinds of choices you will make.
