new york

i climb to the 49th floor
to write about a made-up place
where the sun exists only through glass
and lingers like a body

it’s all world-ending truths
and moon-sized ego

my favorite place to hide
is this bar right here,
where hands, greased with stories,
tell of nights that ruined me
nights i was euphoric
screaming down bowery
queen of the night

myth-busting paradoxical city
contagious freak city

always crushing on this place
contracting colds
swaying on my toes
under the loom of the bridge
where the seaport floats above the sea,
last glimmer of magic
dissolving into what i share
with every other city rat

the promise of morning,
an illusion,
nothing at all