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Apprehensive, Henry asks me about what art is
& I tell him not to worry too much,
because I remember when he was art.

We had sat up the whole summer
night—Indian style,
though it happened on a park bench—
and gotten stiff-kneed while busy
sending words up to the stars.

Without knowing it,
I had been facing West until I turned around
to see the dawn come.
& I only found this out because
for one moment

straight-backed on the bench
in Brooklyn night
Henry’s face got all lit up
& his glasses shined
with the new pink light,

with our words given back,
all pouring from the sky.