Watch a man leave a woman
in Columbus Circle, trees blowing
as in summer in Indian Summer,
the arches of the fountain-water
blowing in the wind that blows
up from Broadway, in Indian Summer, two
brothers leave in their skullcaps;
a woman alone composing photos,
everyone is beautiful who the wind
blows hair across their face, as though
at sea, the statue’s anchors frozen,
like sorrow is a jade tree,
pistachio green in the white lights
of the fountain that are eyes
in blood, portals. This is
the poetics of the city, how fever
infests every goosefleshed silence,
the thighs of the women in their skirts,
jackhammers, a schizophrenic snaps
the mirror off a car like a fruit
to be eaten, smashes up his teeth,
in Indian Summer, this is the poetics
of New York City.
