“I want a poem about a cold city.”
They say the sky churns
the calm and soft exhale
but it never yawns in my city mechanical.
The somber groan from puddles grey,
effortless past the blurs I heave.
We walk faster now-
feeling red lights feathering
our silent leather coats
bumping faded eyes by the subway.
This darling snarl-
of my hanging winter-
new needles made of chills
for the streetscape blue.
Onward the metal,
over and under forgether,
our flocks splashing,
for every moment
the silent sliding without yearning.
“Is it too much to ask for a rondel about a holographic Frank O’Hara and I using the light from the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier to spark our spliffs?”
We take our silent turn;
Hologram Frank and I
Simple stretching of fire
We light a spliff and churn.
He talks and I yearn.
The smoke climbs high
Hologram Frank and I
We take our silent turn.
We call this a sojourn
The unknown soldier shrine
Pale comrade trapped in time
Hologram Frank and I learn,
We take our silent turn.