Dusk in New York hasn’t
three pillars of ecstasy,
nor the benign grace of white doves
basking in the perfume of ponds.

Dusk in New York gloams
off tremendous window panes.
Soft chic ends edge sharply,
looming over brooding despair
looking up at prosperity scraping the air.

The raging pockmarks of coins
dominate like hammers
raining from so high
you’d think they trickled from the sky
a deafening ring:
an instilling of insatiable hunger
and the meager, powerless
growing number
of homeless
children-
the sons and daughters of men and women.

Those
who venture
know in their flesh
that no sublime love
blossoms from its breath

That rat races are
a maze for the maws of the masses
chasing money into the jaws of economic collapses.

Darkness and the freedom to remain silent,
pollution and its passive puzzles of baseless aggression
surround the singular souls stepping sleepless through the boroughs,
alone among millions,
marching as if they had just emerged from a lake of (African, Native American, Islamist) blood.