New York Bends

[a broadside by Tightrope Press, back in the day]


Arthritic hip, midocean, flounders in a sofa
MacDougal Street, incorruptible, sand
On which the old white man burns
A young poet, into, staring into the sun
The lunchcounter depth, at, heartbreak
Welcomed, flares of jelly shoot from
A donut with bad hips rolls from the place
Sinks to his knees, pours out
From his future, the floor like crabs move
He, at his place, a note on the linoleum
Wash the fish.