Or Anything That Comes in Threes

Scaffolding, green screening
and a screaming baby in a pram
collude – exude a scrim: draped hazily
over the giantess of London Terrace,
Chelsea 1920s brick apartment
complex: macerating humid New York

April afternoon, incarcerating me.
Why do I submit so willingly? The city
viscerally works her certainties –
perplexes, teases her Narcissies into
quarantine – psychoses of bright
daffodils corralled like lurid specimens –

shocking silent bells of yellow packed
in iron fences ‘round indifferent
scrawny trunks of sidewalk trees:
I grasp that these are natural divinities
not one whit less than breezes, seas,
or anything that comes in threes.


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