June 22, 2018

To be married to the city is to find 
a boy in the rain and cover him 
with newspaper and branches
and the novel you’ve neglected.
You come at us in the picture 
with electric-dazzled hair 
desiring to sin, the thought
of lovers in every yellow window,
the bridge a ghost as you become 
a ghost yourself, your voice 
Courier and staccato. None wait,
none know the clatter of the tracks
at Jefferson where men 
with whiskey on their fingers
salute the rain. None know 
the broken man who sweeps
the turnstiles, imagining himself
in a black and white garden 
where everything grows. You
planted begonias at your stoop 
in Brooklyn Heights and they drip
your blood and grow beautiful.


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