She Is New York


She is New York, to me, which tends to be funny.
I think of the city, and her, and they are the same breath
Of thought, like a sentence that finishes itself.

She is the energy and the pain, of that city that glares
At you the weak, that exposes you the cruel,
That peels your facade and is merciless in making
You forget yourself because you are you as long as
The city allows.

She is the beauty and breathtaking, the
Image that enters your view so that your
Thoughts, whichever you were having,
Are shelved because then there she was.
You met the city first, fearsome and prickly
To your skin and your lonely longing,
But then you remember her and there is
She as New York because to you,
To your eyes,
She is New York.
Puzzles dancing in the wind blown from the grates
Beneath. The air pushed by leviathans of the concrete deep.
For me it may be enough that she has seen my face.

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