a poem is a mirror
and sometimes i see myself
In it
not smiling like i do in Ima’s photo albums
and not crying like the way i did over lovers whose scent
still burns deep into my nostrils

and sometimes i don’t see myself
In it
i see the people i carry in my pockets
Amichai, Darwish, Shabtai
i make them my own, sometimes
smeared ink on
crumbling pieces of paper in
a notebook that smells like New York City