I Love You More Than All the Windows in New York City

The day turned into the city

and the city turned into the mind

and the moving trucks trumbled along

like loud worries speaking over

the bicycle"s idea

which wove between

the more armored vehicles of expression

and over planks left by the construction workers

on a holiday morning when no work was being done

because no matter the day, we tend towards

remaking parts of it — what we said

or did, or how we looked —

and the buildings were like faces

lining the banks of a parade

obstructing and highlighting each other

defining height and width for each other

offsetting grace and function

like Audrey Hepburn from

Jesse Owens, and the hearty pigeons collaborate

with wrought iron fences

and become recurring choruses of memory

reassembling around benches

we sat in once, while seagulls wheel

like immigrating thoughts, and never-leaving

chickadees hop bared hedges and low trees

like commas and semicolons, landing

where needed, separating

subjects from adjectives, stringing along

the long ideas, showing how the cage

has no door, and the lights changed

so the tide of sound ebbed and returned

like our own breath

and when I knew everything

was going to look the same as the mind

I stopped at a lively corner

where the signs themselves were like

perpendicular dialects in conversation and

I put both my feet on the ground

took the bag from the basket

so pleased it had not been crushed

by the mightiness of all else

that goes on and gave you the sentence inside.

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