Impressions of New York

Hiding like an animal,

in a cab through hot streets.

Running away from the city.

An old impresario lives

outside a cigar shop on 30th.

A passerby inherits his eyes.

Birth is very chancy.

Eventually the brown brick gives way and

no more the smell of malt from the breweries.

Nor grimy factory walls,

for forty years the bones of the dead.

A tragic mother, her hair turned grey,

a shawled crone in the freezing dusk.

The art of love is a sublime achievement.

A Dionysian revival of the erotic Renaissance.