sunset high over Chinatown
as linens dance on rooftops
and the next street over is empty, save
for a lone bicyclist leisurely weaving
down the silent movie brownstone engulfed streets
and on the next block men walk beneath babeling signs
while high above

pamphleters calmly pamphlet
and strangers hearts are tugged
while the streets hiss like burning tungsten
and a man bangs his fist on the table
upstairs a woman is undressing in the thick summer air

America is blanketed in thick licks of purple and orange
and the poetry sings from the recesses of this city

I realized I always see the city against the crisp sky
which means it's never just the city itself,
only it's role as foreground
while the world spins drunkenly
towards the morning's glow.