A something ground zero of the soul,
Stagger amidst the heat, height and hurt of it.
The clouds of its dizzying sky
all the elegant blue that skyscrapers
scrape. Built by dollars of logic
to a rigid town planner’s grid,
so every which way you turn there is
a speculative view of distant infinity.
A city of sense that makes no sense,
God not being a mathematical notion,
save that divine pagan dope Mammon
who goes on suckering everyone.
Gaze from Battery Park by humming waters,
Liberty’s figure in the haze, a tattoo
on the sky’s embracing arm; or ponder
this unique world capital, this Neo-Rome
from Brooklyn’s poetry bridge, its vibrant
presence gets to you, its tall buildings
syllable piles on syllable of beautiful alphabet
that adds up to speechless meaning.
From its city smell to its unique body,
New York is a presence that, like inhaled smoke,
reaches deep down until you nearly
but never quite choke.