Nobody Need Fear

There are times when this bright city seems
as tiny as those angels on a pin – said angels,
would, of course, be copulating to a spin
of quantum rhythms with which they’d
create, luxuriate in – and manipulate –
the obverse side of sin – or one of them:
the skin of this Manhattan Island burns with

their fierce uncontested edginess today:
flames away all excess and relieves us of all
obligation to be sweet, polite, or neat: today
we are the buds of sweat on those infernal
sacred angels’ feet – and backs and breasts
and butts – and we are able through
the intervention of their little lusts to care not

much about much else than our delights,
depravities and fleeting physical excitements:
today we win all fights against our inhibitions:
set our sights on absolutely anything
we find appropriately, plentifully hot. I had
a spot of cold pink borscht just now –
air-conditioned Polish diner – commandeered

a booth across from several nubile youths who
ran their plump pink lips into unending
recitations of their drunken funny Fire Island
trips and slips and blips. If they and I had met
on blazing concrete I’d have flipped each one
into a head-locked kiss. But we did not,
and I am solely here, so nobody need fear.


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