An Imaginary Place

"Meet me at the corner of West 4th St. and 12th St.," she texted,
"Let's get brunch."
I felt the tears well up. There is no such intersection, of course.
Numbered streets run east-west, avenues north-south.
A cruel joke?
She might as well have told me to meet her
In the town
Where the barber
Shaves every man who does not shave himself.

Maybe she was telling me:
"Save yourself."
That it's over.
That like numbered streets in New York, our lives
Can never intersect.

When I got her text this morning, unexpected
Letting me know she was in the Village,
I had dared to hope. But then she told me to meet her
At an imaginary place.

Only in an imaginary place, I suppose
Can love survive, can promises be kept
Can numbered streets run into each other and like confused lovers
Heads bruised, fall over
And, jumbled, grab each other
Hold each other tight
And build some kind of nest to outlast
The never-ending night.