The World Made Fresh

My London is an imaginary place –
but so is my New York.
My mind is an imaginary place
which down to its last quark

reveals itself as co-created
by some agency that I
can’t name along with other
agencies that lie

beyond whatever clear domain
I think I’ve got a handle on.
I think of wet late fall –
Dickensian brick wall: London

as the fresh set for a dream
peculiar to some yearning
which exerts unnerving potency.
As if by learning

I still love the chaos
I abide in her, Manhattan
gives me leave to leave:
and so I batten

down my hatches and imagine
taking off across the pond –
depart one dream-lit inner world
to bring another on.

.