let's drift     here   on the corner
and your japanese mother will walk by
and sing to you in an alien
language
in the marketplace by the orange
and blue flowers dyed especially 
 for us

and your russian father who moves
the wind
will flash by to improve your heart

your mood   zealous 
like the pigeons
    fluttering at our feet
 in the throbbing square
and all the tunnels in the city
bracing the streets   anticipating the
    impact
of a thousand wanderers 
         bumping 
away
from one another

not one sounding our language
  everyone sensing our tone
   across every avenue
even
   our silenced Bowery

each breath    
    in the taxicab     in the perishing Ferris wheels,
all along the harbor       always residual
 always home.

__

I will say about this poem--"echoes" was written pre-9/11, when New York was really a dream to me, and every time I visited, it sucked me in. I always felt like every fiber of the city was meant for everyone, even me, the girl who was an outsider everywhere she went, and I suppose that's what I wanted to say here.