He and I have been fighting again in that dull way,
as we run down the subway's filthy steps. On the N,
we're squeezed close by the crowd. "I don't understand

his accent." an elegant woman next to me says about
the disembodied voice on the loud-speaker. "Is it
Arabic?" "Just New York," I laugh. "Williams, I love

him." She points to my book. "It's like a Haiku; like
he's made an oriental painting," and she pens a stroke
in the air with her hand. "A gesture," I suggest. "Yes,

a gesture," she says, with a beautiful accent I can't place.
"His poems are supple as a dancer's steps," I say, understanding
suddenly how looked at in a certain way, everything is

calligraphic. Doors open at 14th Street, and the crowd floats
forward. Above ground, foil from a crinkled chewing gum
wrapper someone has thrown down reflects back the warmth

of the sun, so I take his arm as we walk to the restaurant
where we've arranged to meet our son.