FourthPersonPlural

Far Brooklyn moon,
couched in all our dirt,
tell it again
how there never was
any path for me to lose.

pursuing friends—
    a banana peel swaddling
    the sidewalk tree

April showers—
a fjord of rain water
guts the subway track

    One by one,
    I dismantle those
    I've yet to even touch.
    Always again
    these prayer beads grow loose.

day moon—
jazz drum from
the academy window

    late evening train—
    a theatre student
    explaining herself

Dismiss always
the need for anyone;
until then
at the city rim
lights pushing lights.

    scything away
    from light polution—
    the rising half of moon

morning after rain—
a capsized june bug
in the flower box

    Because of distance,
    I but drift about you always
    from all sides;
    a Pyrrhic victory: to assign time
    for beautiful things.

summer roof meditation—
a beer can trolling
in the darkness

    shaky subway car—
    everyone nodding
    to my headphones

A phoenix bird for each of us
these two falling stars,
boring holes
through New York night
and the coming unknown.

    warmest evening wind—
    a slow murmur populates
    my earbuds

nowhere burning
a retna stain—
the moon chopped in two

    Our electric storm,
    a lightning rose sprayed
    from empty sky;
    on the hindmost plane
    there is nowhere to run.

city bus prophesy—
"wait for light
then open door"

    greasy business—
    a majong match
    in the auto yard

Suppose it's alright
to be more than okay;
far off,
six fingers of sun fishing
through nimbus cloud.

    evening train—
    the silver hand rail becomes
    her silver balloon

summer's end—
rooftop pipe steam
given to the wind

Monday, February 5, 2007

Series: In New York

for Sophia

grey winter noon—
from inside his moving truck
faint church bells

   overcast bus trip—
he rubs her neck
    from across the aisle

in the looseness
of this window—
a shakier us

    The double world
    of means to me
    and means to you;
    webs of snowdrop tangle
    past the bus window.

local sushi bar—
he figures the Japanese
of a wall-hung haiku

    all that's left
    in the prize machine—
    an empty pack of smokes

heating-up car—
the radio marquee
advertises for itself

    run-down minimart—
    beer flags writhing
        with it all

Surely,
what moves beneath
works to favor hope;
for one year's time
I have slept alone.

    uptown dining—
    double the price
         for nothing

midtown thrift shop—
my only pick of shoes
on a customer's feet

    Chinese supermarket—
    my spring water spills
    onto leaking water

ground zero—
'post no bills' by
the building to be

    The closer I come,
    the farther it crawls
    inside to die;
    from behind, a man
    barking his own 9/11.

beneath the el—
Arab music blaring
through a sunroof

    midnight express—
    two teens brag
    about fighting a cop

late to the Met—
we've only time
for a short snack

   completing
    Central Park in seconds—
    a bug on the map

Dare say I carry my bones
so far from home...
how many moments
could I put between
the el and this moon?

    taming the bull—
    her perfect dismount
    to Wall Street

Blood Alley—
above, a metal ladder
withdraws*

    sardine can subway—
    an old head tells how
    it used to be

midwinter's noon—
a pale leaf crosses
the intersection

    What but raindrops
    do I have to offer
    in lended hand?
    The uptown winter breeze
    forgets me where I stand.

Manhattan sunset—
'everything hurts' tagged
on the pharmacy wall

    leaving Manhattan—
    clustered pigeons circling
    a steel crane

Long ago
I kept a dream, of pushing
through the past;
plastered to the window,
a eucharist of moon.

    early evening depot—
    loose caution tape
    trembling on the ground

*Blood Alley is a small, curved backstreet in Chinatown where supposedly the old tongs, or gangs, would bring victims to be killed.