love letter on west 41st

love letter on west 41st

By Grace Sleeman

who even writes love letters anymore? I didn’t

think I was the type, but clearly I am — the spread of the city

noise around me makes my longing stretch and yawn

and before I know it I’m writing you a letter you won’t

read because I will never send it. there’s something 

wicked and ancient about a city like this one —

it makes you feel like love letters are possible, even

probable. I will go to the Met later and I’ll stand

among those statues and I’ll see your face on every one

and on those that don’t have a face anymore I’ll 

look down at the hands and would you look at that,

those are yours too.