Fare To Lower Manhattan Near Battery Park
From the roof we can see several poems
by Bernard Henrie
burning in lower Manhattan. A Vatican
like white smoke empties into the peaceful
East River. The shower pours itself clumsily
on Battery Park.
When I came for you my eyes were pilasters
of buttery gold. We slept in cucumber tinted
dusk. Looters drift through the city and traffic
moves on quickly; peacocks with stained green
tails whir in stank cages at the zoo.
Lightening burns into the horizon, lovers brush
the turnstiles of the BMT Bronx trains.