Tchaikovsky, like this other side
of lostness, is incomplete again.
I lean into violin on the train
To hear it absolutely. I want
to make purpose of, complete,
ugliness. My era. I see beauty
if I crane my neck enough
somewhere back there in the rain.
Violin Concerto in D, Op. 35, I know
is behind the mis-colored sky.
I hear it pushing subway cars.
Spilling out as umbrellas open.
I have been living under skyline.
In the negative space. The only place
For pieces of you, Tchaikovsky,
a leaf caught on the raincoated
concrete step. The life we have yet
To live. In windows, wall-less
if I could paint them, if I had paint-
buckets of rain and you
over and over again, every step
ever upwards. When I carry you
I am together with my discomfort.
I am walking so close beneath beauty.