New York City Springrides an exacerbating swing:
though not perhaps as if some gifted schizophrenic king
had ordered his best alchemists to bring
their favorite sparkling bits of bling
to melt into a scalding metal ring
with which to strangle and to sting
the city into shedding mist like piss to zing
across each dropped forgotten Chinese take-out chicken wing.
Can’t decide on green, or warm, or here, or anything.
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