Alien at Westbeth, Bank Street, and Sheridan Square,
I passed through the Eighth Street Bookstore and NYU.
I saw a surreal bohemia at Washington Square,
the Jefferson Market Library, and Balducci’s.
One word after another stopped at Minneta Lane.
Westway was not my poem. The old village was more real
than punk rock on Gansvoort, street singers on Greenwich,
and the tight ropewalker on Hudson. At the Bobst Library
I wrote a poem for the Cornelia Street Café. I swam at
the Carmine Street Pool; and found Jane, Perry, and Horatio.