Sunday, December 4, 2016

hang our harps

Something's flown in on
the change of seasons,
the sidewalk slush
makes me miss the
dirty city snowfall.
Some nostalgia's
fallen from the sky
in between the quiet
coating the world
in silence and sehnsucht.

If I forget you East Harlem,
Let my tongue burn on
hot Dominoes pizza
that I have ordered,
betraying the memory
of your dollar slices,
lining the corners of
Lexington Avenue.

There's too much space to breathe here--
But this shy first snow--
like a dry subway breeze--
fills the rattling void.
I finally feel
that magic kind of
isolated and suffocated
all at once.
The crowded sort of lonely
lousy in the City.

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