The snow on Coney Island

I dove off the Staten Island ferry
In an oil mud
The sunset inspires me this poem
A breath between two towers
And I join you to take you away from the night
The shiver of a cloud
The vertigo is post-industrial
The barber points at me
My chewing gum is becoming a ghost
A derelict warehouse
A young boy with a bright yellow spray in his hand
Stumbles down one of the 154 stairs of Hudson Yards
The steps hold the remnants of summer
And all the leaves fall, dead and weary
Catch me if you can
I’ll run till I lose my breath
In the middle of your laughter
It’s dark but the neon lights catch the eye
The images are twitching 24/24
In the antechamber of our consciousness
I’ll run until my heart gives out
And that the magpies tear out my eyes
Here the elms are in flower
They sing softly, so that we leave them in peace
A prayer for Manhattan
A flashy sign
Has come down and the wind lifts it
Into the farthest clouds
A small church vomits its faithful
On a crowded street
If you want to find me
Come and look for me in the cloister
Near the Metropolitan Museum of Art
I sew a scarf of dreams
In the hope of seeing the snow again
On Coney Island this winter

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