I’ve found myself wandering through deserted places
that only I care about.
Still whispering your name
and the names of your flowers
Maybe if I pour myself into them
you’ll show your face and
let me apologize some more.
How many times do I have to say it
to feel a little less of that weight?
Remembering red wine and tea cups
coins all around
blood copper, you’d say.
We could both smell the scent of stagnation
that tends to surround people who are
too tired to really care.
Jokes told on one side,
hide ourselves in pillows
Summer skins shed,
we hid in husks of ourselves
while we waited for the sun to return)
But does New York Care?
What greatness have I missed beneath my own feet
in the city that never sleeps?