The genuine pain that keeps everything awake
is a tiny, infinite burn
on the innocent eyes of other systems.

But I will go to the first landscape
of shocks, fluids and murmurs

Dawn arrives and no one receives it in his mouth
because morning and hope are impossible there.

And I, on the roof’s edge,
what a burning angel I look for and am!

New York, mire.
New York, wire and death.
What angel is hidden in your cheek?