Labor Day

I no longer hold needles like sapphires or
truths—this city has become
my bone box; worsted
cement heat twist-wringing, you know the
heap and spill of labor day street rot.
I was slipping, I slid, I sluiced, I shot into
her and I couldn’t know how curved,
I didn’t know and I didn’t know her,
this city has become my bone
box; locked

lines on the Guggenheim, those
scaffolds steel webs, just
try and contain her she oozes she
sluts she stinks and as they
chip away she only more inward
turns, you know she’s not afraid
to be cold, to be hard, to burn yes
this city has become my bone
box; walked

down Canal street drunk-spinning
tried to run but she encompasses, you know
she’s swift in consuming I woke
naked and sitting her head in my lap
oh god! her lips moving! And I
no longer hold truth like a smooth-plated
spoon, my bone box is breaking,
Manhattan is reeling—