(A poem is born outside, hanging by my window; it flirts with disaster.)

I remember the first time we went to Central Library in DTLA. We

walked around, perused the poetry and children’s section. This

was where we belonged: we were delicate and foolish like the brittle

petals of an autumnal wildflower, like an adobe-vintage-vase filled

with salted caramel ice-cream and black winter truffles. After the

picture books, we stepped outside and sat on the curb to admire

the work of a window cleaner, suspended from the tallest building

in the city. You told me that one day you wanted to write a poem

and title it: Window Cleaner. With time, we become

window cleaners hanging by the wire rope; we become

the accumulated dirt being washed away; we become

the guest watching from the inside of the glass window; we become

the drivers in the racing cars watching from below; and the anti-god

watching from above, pretending to be rain—dripping, dripping,

until free fall finally turns our poems into detached songs.