When New York Sweats

Dank blanket of a haziness descends –
suspends most urges to go on –
slow swarm of its warm lazy entropy

insinuates its amplitude into each rude
vicissitude of everybody’s heavy flesh.
Nothing will again be fresh. Manhattan

is a wet immobile lunk: disseminating
funk. Today the garb and attitude
of perfumed sleek transvestite whore

that humid hot New York once wore
is no more. “She’s” inveterately “he”
today. That’s why you smell that way.

.