Paul Celan said a poem is a handshake. Well, big sister, here's a handshake to you and your new hometown.


Small birds are bold in Brooklyn,
they dive low and land on empty café tables.
Small birds are unafraid in Brooklyn,
they beak bits of challah bread, crumbs of currant scones.

In Brooklyn, you are tainted
with the belief that a wonderful thing is about to happen,
and so our foreheads,
folded to block the brilliant sun from our eyes,
shine like talismans.
You want to smile at us,
ask even the expressionless where we head.

The wait for the tremendous is no longer evasive.
The tick of our sandals
lulls you forward
into the walk among brownstones, sycamores,
and weeds that break into seed from cracks in the sidewalk.  ¶ 8:44 PM