X Months Later

The atmosphere of New York is meant to train one to look and live
at eye level and below.
And who can bear the weight of the naked soul?
The light is never direct sun.
Always neon signs. Always window glares.
Breathe into a film of dust and gasoline.
Is this luxury? Behold the cherished grass
stifled between slabs of concrete.
Disconnected from heavenly things,
our hand reach to God through grates of steel, hallelujah.
That our fingers can breathe, hallelujah.
A steady secretion of grossness: the city.
Tired sounds, tired building, tired eyes.
Do you want an extra shot of espresso?
What redemption ascends from pools of vomit and ash?

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