Where will I cry?

When I do not live in the city any longer, where will I cry?

When my body is set back on its well-known streets, will my rough voice hush?

Will I drive in a car fast, beating time to the quick-changing feelings?

Will I walk down the sidewalk slow, hiding my faces from the neighbors?

Tell me your stories, pour your words over me. Otherwise I forget.

Sing me your songs, all you glorious air and wind poets. I need songs.

How many people are pacing, pacing through America's small towns?

How many nighttimes are crashing their sunsets, blood made out of hot songs?

I chant, you chant. A car passes every hour. There is no place to hide.

I count, you count. The guitars parade their greedy strings from east to west.

We are remade, strung on our inventions, counting, facing down midnight.

We are remade new by the very hours that are breaking us apart.

There is no other side of the street. There is no hiding in echoes.

When I do not live in the city any longer, where will I cry?