Boston Creme

Centers, I know about centers. Doughnut,
cupcake, Jewish Community,

centers, I know about centers.

Centre Street, or Center Street, Hakeem,
Akeem “The African Dream”; Centers

I know about, centers,
I, know about centers.

Day 183, midway aside a Poplar tree,
Mecca, Jerusalem, sweet Mother

McCree, centers, I know about,

centers. What the centaurs ate, when
the center held, who the center was?

Wes Unseld!

Centers. I know
all
about, centers.

Isaac Leib

Your city ends, means beyond new
cities, ignorant of peaceable ways.

New city, an easy stepping traverse
of identities, transmission:

permeable as laid fish

into concrete, speckle of blood, trickle
of electric web, first meditations,

fatiguing, sleep resurfacing.

The entangling village; evident, unstoried,
open legged as the upcoming stride.

What of the old town? What of the order
unbending, the anarchic forecasts

flailing for participatory cogency? And
what of the nightbirds’ soliloquies,

tonight, at Peretz Square?

My Child

My child learned
pronounced
1) in a word

My child upheld
flounced
2) in a word

My child forged
heaved
3) in a word

My child renamed
believed
4) in a word