(Written tonight on the F train)
The streets are scattered with men in djellaba and gandoras
heads covered
speaking languages originating in
Morocco, Ghana, India, Pakistan
Some scold small children
Others orchestrate business stealthily
into cellphones
Brooklyn is holy in this way;
bringing together multitudes
Making things possible that seem impossible
Inside, where it is quiet
Diana tells me to breathe
And breathe some more.
I ask,
Shouldn't all this longing and sadness have left me by now?
She says,
Oh honey
Look at your hands.
Even fingernails take months to grow.
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