Preacher
The sound of the subway seeping
up through metal grates like
coffee steam —
I slip on the pavement and pretend
that it was meant to be,
thinking to myself
This place will ruin me.
The snow is snow
melting on my boots
and carving out a place for
itself in my soles.
Tourists stand pointing up towards
nothing.
March comes and I
am spring once again.
Breathing hurts me when I think
too much about it,
So I collapse on a bed that is
moss-colored
and stare into heaven.
I am alive with this
Being in love, you
will tell whoever softly asks,
Am I separated from your body and your smile
to become a puppet in a dream?
Oh I mean:
entirely having, in my careful
careful arms, created this at length
inexcusably, this pleasure—you go
from several
persons: Believe me that strangers arrive
when I have kissed you into darkness,
that since and if you disappear
myselves ask solemnly
Life, the question — how do I drink or dream or smile
and how do I prefer this face to another and
why do I weep or eat or sleep — what does the whole intend?
They wonder. Oh and they cry to be, or not to be,
that I am alive with this absurd
fraction in its lowest terms
is the only victory I have seen so far.
Nate Cabral lives in Brooklyn and is the marketing assistant at a book publisher. He likes being paid to write but will do it for free if necessary.