The miracle of being …

A Cricket in Washington Square Park

 

It is, it is, it is – it’s you, cool as the night, scraping toothy wing on
wing. Yeah, man. Your it is is far from my it was, in this town
I never knew I’d know. Yo, first violinist of Washington Square,
slave picnic site, burial ground a shout from Independence Hall.
It is, it is – it is fall, it is here, it is you and I and your
it is I never saw coming. It is always past me before I know. Thanks
for that. It is, it is, it is – yeah, man, no it was for you. For me
plenty. It is, it is. I hear you. Is makes it a miracle; it makes is a
mystery. You, in is, in act, rub wings with God. Me, too, only I
don’t know. Fine, it is, far from it was; will be even
further. It is what it is. Hey – MC of it is, of
desire, time, and fact of the matter, apart from, yoked with
the stars, of whom we are, and they of us – you
have no idea you’re in these words. I walk to violins
of was and will be, and you can’t hear them,
fiddler in the rough. I am, I am, I am in
your it is, it is, it is in my ears. We are, we are, we are.

— John Timpane