i come from stabbing a tender sun.
new york, you’re a landscape that loves regret,
but i am told that we cannot live our lives in flames
and march is no time for letting the deep light
in. 

i walk home from goldman sachs and meetings with bankers
thinking: if the gods were still around, they’d surely
play a part in this accumulation of undergrowth
down on park avenue, rising into the
sky.

we could do with a little armageddon here
and a little more of that water, disremembering
our worst advances. to go to - landscape subsumed, 
language submersed, the shadow…liquid and
indistinguishable.