Eyes, brownish, brownish hair, rooted in the land
of test markets: ribless rib sandwich, Ohio, the heart of it all,
that fatless fat that passes, unchanged, through the body, although
you may feel a little sick. But why not say what happened.
She was exported (I was) forever: a one-way ticket, and not for the sole
purpose of finding herself on a map. You could look for her
but not toward that body of water to the West -- the one bearing
the name of a dead man. Lower, to the East. Moving still
farther eastward -- traversing the fastest route from Brooklyn to Queens, far
past where the streets are numbered. Not the Hudson River, not the Lower
East Side, not the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. Here, they call it
like they see it: the first avenue and then the second one, and when you run out
of counting, there's the alphabet. At the Center of the city, there
is a Park, and at the heart of her body, the heart.
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