I’ve been here for sixty three days
and met many family members,
studied photographs of friends
no longer available to me.
In the place where my former life once was
there are Chinese delivery men cycling
murders in nearby cars and insane bus drivers
stories concerned at root with transportation.
I know of other details, small pieces
but within them the pattern has been lost.
It seems to be a place whose very skylines
of the eye but of the heart also, obscure the view.
There are rumors to be heard
as many as there are dead and naked birds
roasted for display.
I can see smoke rising
that one great evidence of industry or accident
and the fire truck’s horn soon follows.
I make another cigarette
and careful with the match light it.
I see a small dog on the pavement below,
jumping its height and catching raindrops in its mouth.
Barking in happiness and twisting in flight.
I try a muffled little bark myself
and with the sound still in my throat
I wish for a moment to be as lost and found
and on all fours
oblivious to the notions of this repetitive address
New York, New York.