This, the road, my palette
of striped and printed ladies
and men in spit-shined shoes,
this yellow taxi, my plough,
this tunnel, my burrow. I circle the tower
again and again, a child’s head on a baseball bat,
fat, wooden end on the ground. Spin
and spin to 9th Avenue,
to 1st Street, south, southwest, the horizons
blend into the fume of nylon legs crossing
against the lights. Dizzy
I fall to you and your dusty feet
and you carry me trainside on your pink tongue.
The world is slanted and slattern
stemming from the core. I don’t believe
a Poe heart pulsates
but the chimes, my dear, my head.
When we kiss, I say, you’re younger.
I feel it, too, you say
and disappear behind a revolving door
back to your own personal aquarium
forty-five stories above the ground.
Here I remain
six feet above death
and not nearly high enough.