You strain your mighty best to gain a pattern –
take the random mad intrusions of bright fractured
light, insoluble geometry, all lathered by the untoward
ninety-two degrees of heat with which Manhattan
wants to eat you – then imagine you can take the larger
aerially distant view: see random blocks
of intersecting lines that skew with almost absolute
abandon: try to see a symmetry that suits:
or maybe stunted breakage of a mind and body:
shoddy by default – impregnable by willed design:
as if each line were prescient with insentience:
existentially divinely irredeemable: and yet
you’ll prod your pens and paper to an estimable
and accessible production: cleaned up by the reflex
suction of the ascertaining brain: a little park, a drain,
a purple artery, all outlined as if everything made sense.
Too many breathing, yearning, sweating, blooming
beauties all at once today, too hot, too dense.
.
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