Winter thrums, thrums, thrums sometimes I can't see the skyline
from my roof so what am I paying for if not the view?
I'd like to keep the kettle on forever but don't have the strength
to rebuild from the fire. Today I lost one of my red gloves
and my hand camouflaged itself to match that missing bloody hue.
Nothing but blue skies—somewhere, somewhen else
I came for the storied buildings that lumber onwards and upwards
rascocielos—a not unkind violence
but have been dreaming of that crackled, miles long road
of that other desert planet, alive underneath.
Onwards and upwards I lumber upwards and onwards,
waiting for that brief break that I'm not even sure will come,
but I have to be forgiving because I too am ambiguous.
Slick, curdled slush coats the city my boots my brain, it looks
like I was borne from it, like I'll return there eventually,
do you think it sinks when spring comes, do you think
one day we'll bloom and the ripeness will stink so deep
that our hearts will stop not dead but near it
do you think the spring is coming or will it play hooky
this year, do you forget that manhattan bloomed between
two rivers. do you think that spring will come, do you, do you?