On November 22, 1994,
the author of this poem, riding
the N.Y. subway, clearly saw the emptiness
of all conditions. O Señorita,
form is no other than emptiness,
emptiness no other than form; your form
is exactly emptiness, and
emptiness always exists as form.
There is nothing that can be known
that isn’t exactly this. Past &
future, time and space, aging and
death, the subway, the city, your Spanish
lips, all desire a dream within a
dream as we sit here with
compassionate indifference to that
which has never been and will
never die. It is 5:55,
2nd Ave. and Houston. At
Frutti di Mare my date arrives
45 minutes late. That’s OK, I say.
There’s no time like this time.