Flat Iron, Battery Park

The acceptance of an age
in which we falter.

This is my voice
without control.

Lower your hand.
Place it before mine.

I ask of you a faith of answers.

A rearview mirror in which we
might see the future:

What was here?
My sidewalk.

Smoke turns on its side,
jangle, jangle.

During the fall,
yellow leaves resemble
open feet.

Turn the corner.
Are we walking?

I am afraid to ask for what I want.
My flesh no more real than your flesh.

Are the names the same when we speak?
Do the words match?

A sense of the supreme or disdain,
come again.

The instance of remorse
It’s in the way pigeons fly

Swoop and swarm.
Heads cocked.

It’s in the waiting—
sitting on steps.
under the umbrella.
watching the cast iron.

My hand full of crumbs.

Fly away,
so that we might fashion
a quill from the debris.

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