New York, there, that island and
its fog, that graduate when we're ready to disguise, or when prompted, to run across the street, that green weight examining down to ridges of perfect seizures expressed in numbers that resemble canticles yet invested with a distinction startled from a certain clumsy yen for greeting the surface tension or engulfing the flux with subway tokens the colour of your eyes the express intention and other magnets along the way New York has been farcical clammy dumped formed stewed reaching diametric offed and still but no land exists beyond a peopled murk and we arrive hourly instituted with belief and systematically rigid while betraying a neat bomb bay for the masses to inspect gracious opulence sweats in the parlour your love is like mine after all this guff poetry teeming with stewards of streets
