ew York, so often recorded in photographs,
Must have trouble believing its crows can fly,
Or that, when frantic snow, in clouds
Of misdirection, is falling, it falls.

The weight in the withstanding snubs
The whitened flakes of logic, flees
Wet streets that are streets, scoffs
At routine measurements of what is there.

New York, so often recorded in photographs,
Must have trouble believing itís heart can stop,
Or that as doves, in nests along the river, forever
Swept and sweeping, are hatching, they have hatched.


   

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