Obligatory New York Poem

I dreamt New York was sinking
as I walked down Sixth Ave
just like a tourist, just like Christmas trees.

Don’t look up, the driver told me
as I left the shuttle from my flight.
My motion is hardly about traffic.

So how am I to know the sky is broken
by building lines? To trust such a gesture
as intimate as sight is such a new sin.

I stared blankly at the ground, starving
for importance. Lana Turner died days
from here and now I dance with O’Hara’s pedestrians.

Clumsy is my Maumee name
left feet fall gracefully from right
hands. I make love to this sprawling city.

Wild, intimate, nameless, faceless love
in this dance. Rhythm is no
manifesto in a world ready for manifestas.

I need to relearn this cocky skyline.
Redraw a line of sight where floating becomes
more a dream and less impossible.