5TH AVENUE, MANHATTAN

Excepted from Rustles in Dry Leaves by Antarah Crawley c. 2014

there is no shortage of muses in the city.
you cannot keep at bay the surge they swell inside you or the mast they keep at sail.
ornamented monoliths’ countless stories have seen countless stories; awning-covered thresholds yawn with gapéd mouths, several centuries’ stony sleep.
the city’s first casualties are soles, while, underneath, your balls grow calloused.
hardest part of anywhere is getting there.
crowd into downtown-bound train lines,
sides of urban highway have been socially prescribed.
holes may burrow deep into the concrete & the soil & cysts of steel may sprout like tumors,
extend unto the ends, &
we are all but cells in capillaries, anemones at sea;
& the bloodways run both ways up to the crown and down beneath the feet; & you may wonder while you wander effortlessly in the street.
she of glass eyes urges one to find…
the city is hollowed,
hollow inside.
vagrant dreams have dissolved in the steam which ascends from subway grates that have warmed the nameless;
those who’ve dreamed have fallen, while steam serves but as warmth, & may in the winter frost soar higher &
it’s only the wind that
rustles in dry leaves.
do downtrodden doves living over cosmo-poverty
lament their cement-speckled wings?
i am pigeon seeking crumbs cast by bag ladies under canopies in parks.