Advice we had was to just step right out,
like wading
in a stream. Motorbikes—hundreds of them
sputtering, honking—
would find a way around us. We were told
we must
not be erratic or hesitant, for that would
throw off
everyone. So, trusting these our friends,
poets, here
on the street named for the poet of Kieu,
we leaned
into the traffic as if it were only light wind
flowing around
our faces, and we imagined a world at that
instant utterly
merciful, and belonging to those few who,
as they
passed smiling looked upon us as if we might
be forgiven.