these are my people
who mistreat cashmere sweaters
stolen Salvation Army
who fish boxes Tiffany blue
upturn garbage can NewYorkCity
who memorize Bryant Park
newness, plaster discarded circulation leaflets
in grimy spirals against a mouthy palate
who travel by discount commuter train
borrowed boxcar redeye voyage
who never buy
tickets to sold out shows,
who scratch the bottom of the barrel
and reevaluate the notion of food,
who buy the biggest, cheapest bottles
of foulest champagne and toast wordless speeches
to friends they cannot afford to keep
who have never touched their foot soles against another country’s soil-stem
and spend their days manual-clutch training
optic nerve lenses in worship
of counterfeit grail that manic-gleam reflects
the uninhabitable absence of Here.

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