Everything has become hazy:
The beating-heart stars,
The yawning street-lamps,
The petulant pink-neon signs,
The yellow smear of taxis,
The thudding steps of theater patrons,
The steam rising from manhole covers like braying beasts,
The whinnying of police sirens,
The clunking of turnstiles like forgotten coins,
The hissing of slithering subway cars,
The moon crawling up trees, and
The rain sliding her hands down the back of 8th Ave-
I’ve taken a turn at
W. 51st and Broadway-
The last place life made sense.
Where I forgotten my parcels stuffed with
Sky under the church altar.
And so the years have passed.
So many years have
© DiCicco Cosentino