What? I’ve been working late every day getting ready to go to New York

for a week. All the buildings plasticy and transparent like skin

removed with the ocean and sunshine behind it, full of people

though you can’t see them you can feel them like wind in your

hair, like trees full of insects making business happen, increasing

vertical slices of worlds like plants in themselves, keeping green

to themselves in boiled and boiling words which speak to

plants and skies amid the card-thin cities of rotten noise

that help me be what I am, or might be soon, a swiped image

of myself and of you too, in old soft-spoken waves and shorelines

around coves of a few given Thursdays, Wednesdays, like I get

tomorrow, one or another to do (with change for tips)—