[[Naomi’s note, Sunday, Feb. 5, 2023. Sul’s poem pays homage to the short, uncertain days of New York’s February, which are melted from austerity into tender ambivalence at the turn of her words. The introspection of the poem mirrors this gradual softening, unfurling like a deep breathe.]]

February is a month
of humiliations. I am
weaker, more trivial, less
generous than I think myself to be.
What is material
remains a major source
of gratification. I am cowardly,
short with friends, not getting enough
reading done.
I even
shave a star into my pubes
with a nose hair trimmer and
it looks like shit.

In February the sidewalks are salted.
If you’re very quiet you can hear it melt the snow.
I love that.
Simple things
carry me; I’m animated
by the substantiveness of what at first
appears slight. The wind blows the salt
against my face. When I lick my lips,
I am tasing the streets. And when I
flick off the last light of the house,
I’m no closer to loving better than I was yesterday.

                                                New York, 2022

Sul Mousavi lives humbly, from moment-to-moment. Sul loves techno and fears God.