Its gray, cool and lazy 4pm embryos of winter the birds don’t let your presence get to them
Weeping in the plastic shards of afternoon there is the street below mostly empty views are afforded to me the black glass boxes almost become faces
my mastiffs of shattered rainbows die on their bed of moon sweat after making love
people file out of the restaurant like a funeral procession along Sixth Avenue as the wind bites a little thing that stands out from the hoards of coats
up here, on the fifth floor the ground is rusted canoes of history brushing elbows with a 21st century schizoid city
I had a farm in Iowa at the foot of the disconsolate hills
I had a body taken by insects in a dream
