Where in the Times Square subway station a woman dumps her bags on a wooden bench, hurriedly unsnaps her cloth carrier, frantically wrestles with a bright floral cover and smiles a slow smile as her screaming baby quiets.

Where, walking into the early morning sun on their way to school, a woman and her 12 year old son almost pass a mother and her baby doll perched in the crook of a tree without noticing.

Where the American flag, the Israeli flag and an octopus pennant snap in the wind on the top of an apartment building on 99th street.

Where, after clipping his nails on the 2 express train, the violinist carefully replaces his small gold nail clipper into a green, upholstered compartment in his violin case.

Where on East 57th Street the Prada's sole-affixed price tag is almost but not quite legible in its own reflection.

Where a woman spends half the night reading in a cold, dry hotel bathtub so as not to wake her sleeping, snoring family.

Where an unusually cold, wet winter retreats, leaving, in its wake, a lush field of poppies and other wildflowers at the northern edge of Israel.

Where everything is quiet on the finger of the Galilee.

Where on the back wall of Simchee cleaners on Columbus avenue a clock with the twelve ideograms of the zodiac and Hebrew letters marking the hours is the last vestige of the previous owner.

Where two of the three African American men who respectfully hoot for and raptly listen to poet Nikky Finney, text, tweet and email all through poet Lyn Hejinian's reading.

Where a white man says to the woman next to him, "that's REALLY distracting," and moves his eyes toward the mandala she is noiselessly drawing in her notebook and then he proceeds to make a loud "mmmnnn" appreciation noise during and after each poem Nikky Finney reads.

Where the young writer in the audience at the writer's conference has words tattooed in a jumble on her arm.

Where on a dark, rainy evening not even Mrs. Dalloway can keep the subway rider awake.