fighting in french
three seats apart
on manhattan bound trains
manic eyed children
lobbing snappers
like final grenades
firing air horns
to the beat of unknown
internal rhythms
times square a circus
too complex
to comprehend
first rain
after real storm
breaking heat
setting us free
and i think back
toward golden palace
what might have been
what could have
what almost was
in otherness set
apart only so
much over and
yet so far
its near to front
holy space
its stretched
spine and sun
eyed radiance
its utterly unreasonable
nature
and i look around
at this rusty red
what might have been
what we had
what we have become
in middle of world
otherness set inside
ever so much
and yet so far
its near to front
necessary space
its crooked
spine and marble
eyed solidity
its utterly unreason
able nature
and like this
city surrounding
imperfection not some
vision of ideal
but rather its
true existness
in and of
itself and what
we make of it
pieced together
with plastic bolt
poverty curtain
and cast away chair
raised up from ashes
made every moment
something new
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