Intimations of Another New York City Season

Days away from fall, one New York City afternoon 
inevitably spreads through sunset to the moon's onset 
to dawn to yet another afternoon which incrementally 
breeds shadow earlier and more theatrically: beckons 
dusk as if impatient for the night. Warmth inexorably 

cools and dries the air: achieves that rare, sharp 
autumn clarity of light no other time of year can equal: 
here, right now, in us, each sense informs, reforms 
and joins the others synesthetically: for moments 
we’re convinced we hear and smell and taste the sight

of amber crimson purple setting sun which, lingering

however long a sigh lasts, brushes the horizon’s skyline

silhouette before it sinks: fullness at the brink of offering

its fecund wealth as sacrifice, to welcome the incorrigible

cold en route to it: the closest weather gets to death.

Suddenly I know this city is my breath: it saves my life.

Beyond the autumn – both familiar and impenetrably

strange – a winter will arrive and we will take with it

what New York savors most: a danger-ridden dive.

My city! – oh my city, oh my city! – is alive.

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