will asking all those
skinny naked pity questions
help to heal you because
yes I am loving the city you
abandoned for a steely-eyed number-crunching
New Yorker
to let you sleep tenderly smothered beneath his
wing but never to fly, never left
to wander, to uncover the
ecstasy of madness, fruitlessness,
uselessness and the love to be won from the
self-destruction we had but instead traded for the
exhilaration of straitjackets and anchor pills as if
daring to feel the full stab of the lover’s moon and grit our
teeth and clean the wound and survive
somehow makes us strongor good for rejecting the death or that
blood and
love inside and out is what defines us or that
either one of them
could make us feel like we’re free...or even what we used to be