New York City

You carry your life to this muddy view
of the night. Oh, that you could spell
things on the roof of your mouth
and spit them into a cup. I would
catch what spills from you and put it
into a mold and hold you there. I would.
The complete circus that is New York City
which has never been more sparkly, or sad. Every
corner is the first or last place I did this or that.
I would clear the city of this haunted matter
as though it were my hands clearing a table
tugging parts of the room into some space
that is easier to forget. Yeah. Right.
Like all you need to do is pretend to fly
over Houston Street with your arms flapping
in front of a car that was built in a factory
before you were born. Like that would change anything.