Yellow leaves on subway steps
smoke from diesel buses
sparkle in the night street pave
traffic barriers over the ripped out
sidewalk in the Bowery
glance of Puerto Rican eyes
the scruffy black man blowing his ancient
brass horn
in front of St. Timothy’s,
hat sprinkled
with coins,
endless endless taxi horns
walking Fourth Avenue in the Village,
beat book racks in front of Strand's
cold wind and wrapper races
“ to this
middle ground we wake
heaven or hell ours to make”
the pretty Asian girl
turning the corner
onto Bleecker Street –
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