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NEW YORK, NEW YORK
for Michael Lorimer
I'm actually sitting at one of those
glassed-in New York restaurants that
jut out into the sidewalk, watching the
people go by, and the
little 3-D picture here would be
in everyone's heart simultaneously, in the
gimpy old guy with grizzled chin, the
Chinese waiter rushing by in apron and black shoes, the
man with umbrella holding his cleaning in its plastic bag,
the overwrought mother with her three overactive children,
the lovely secretive girl in green slacks, the
black brother with his baseball cap backwards and
black glasses,
the little 3-D picture here
would burst like a blooming of once-a-year roses,
and it too would have dark reddish-purple deep richness
inside the base, and grow
delicately peach near the outer edge, and peering way in we'd see
a gathering of lions under green leaves licking their
paws, and a white egret
sitting on a post about to fly, and it would suddenly
fly forward with beauteous wings
just flicking the edge of the picture on
either side,
and at its closest point to our own faces its
feathery face would show sphinx-like ageless quietude,
high cheeks, slitted eyes,
a
sweet
aroma
fills the air, golden
light filters down from the sides onto a
flat mirror placed
symmetrically
under a black sky.
5/19
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