It’s like this: You go numb into your silent lunch hours Into the chill doom of day­light Are swept street­less down to city lib­rar­ies Walk out with China Mieville novels And Duke Elling­ton and urban fairytales Trying to warm your hands and heart By the heat…

I half-expect Gitane-smoking men To flow through the door, Exclaim­ing: “the world is here And demands exulta­tion! O cel­eb­rate, you daugh­ters of justice! O weep, you chil­dren of sus­pi­cion! The ivy has freed the street­lamps. Statues guard ancient type­writers: Rejoice in…

for my grand­father, Sydney Levine, on the night of his death In the end, his bird-like hands Clutched to his chest, skin like vellum. It is on that parch­ment we write our stor­ies, On this man we weave our tales. He is our silent audi­ence, breath shal­low, As we scrawl…

Now I know how 100,000 bodies look Buried in soft ground; or at least I know their shape, How much land they fill. I know that grass Grows greener with humans as fer­til­iser. I am haunted by the curve of souls, the twist of necks as chil­dren land on hun­dreds of other…

Coming back I wonder where Home is. I have offi­cial stamps From thieves to say Enter, Stay. I want to ask Aunty Sue, how do I Apply for a pass­port, from you? We came from China, from Russia, Ukraine, Poland, Ger­many, Czech; from Viet­nam, Kosovo, South Sudan,…