I get a cinder in my eye
it streams into
the sunlight
the air pushes it aside
and I drop my hot dog
into one of the Seagram Building's
fountains
it is all watery and clear and windy
the shape of the toe as
it describes the pain
of the ball of the foot,
walking walking on
asphalt
the strange embrace of the ankle's
lock
on the pavement
squared like mausoleums
but cheerful
moved over and stamped on
slapped by winds
the country is no good for us
there's nothing
to bump into
or fall apart glassily
there's not enough
poured concrete
and brassy
reflections
the wind now takes me to
The Narrows
and I see it rising there
New York