(I just moved to a smaller city, so I've been writing a lot about that transition):
Let the cats trace the margins of your attention with their ribs, let them play with the thin plume of newness that flickers across the living room floor, where light takes the shape of a cathedral and passing car horns sound like prayers. Let your mind unfurl its attention like a white flag of surrender, let it loosen its tethers and release poems. A new town can do that, spread its arms wide and reveal hidden plumage. Small town felicity will mend your jewelry free of charge and stop for pedestrians in the cross-walk, provide piles of good maps, but will it unmask itself? In this town you smile at every face like yours and search for life on the railroad tracks. In this room the insistent growl of motorcycles outside swallows the stillness of your desk lamp. All the poetry born into this room will be tinged with the gray-brick loss of one city and the amber discovery of another.