I bike not just to get places but to get off the ground:
you don’t have to be going somewhere to be somewhere,
going.

The poem is a self-portrait
                                                                      always, no matter what mask
You take off and put back on.

After the winter thawed away, I rose,
Remembering what you said. Below the field 
Where I was dead, the crinkled leaf and blade 

  Mario for mayor of me, and my glorious city.
  The Mayor of New York should be a nightingale.

let’s try a more
domestic framing, angle your hands
in the shape of a rooftop, someone was waiting

The loneliness I felt for you and the loneliness
You felt for me
Was hideous, it was the true hell of love.

Things that divine us we never touch:
The black sounds of the night music,
The Southern Cross, like a kite at the end of its string,

Each evening, the sins of the whole world collect here
      like a dew.
In the morning, little galaxies, they flash out

I’m winding down. The daylight is winding down.
                                                                     Only the night is wound up tight.
And ticking with unpaused breath.