Give me the soft calm
like palm leaves,
the nights dotted in
phosphorescent bodegas.
I bathe in the neon halo
of fading pinks and
twitching greens.
The endless stairwells
to the cosmic bodies,
I would climb every one
if the night would allow it.
If sun never rose and the
stars could be the guides
of all of New York.
Emblazoned across
the building bricks
are slashes of dank
orange illumination.
The angles splash like
a Pollock and pop
like a Warhol here
uptown, there downtown.
I will slosh along in the
sunny plastic subway seats
to get there. My hand as
big as this map of Manhattan.
There is a quaint hominess
to the way morning light
seeps through the city
like tea steeping on
the windowsill.
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