The sound of glass breaking
constantly
in thy tenement,
rattling on the iron bars
wrought iron bars
of the fire escapes,
mossy with rust and centuries old
black paint,
flowers,
outside it is jangling
like thirty-five thousand magpies
hauling their thief's booty of bells.
But inside it hums,
because the walls are brittle
and the iron beams
know to gossip
and the magpie chorus
is held off by rolling waves overhead,
and all we hear is quiet gongs
as you roll over,
and there's a fleck of lint in your stubble
it's fine stubble
your hair is very soft not that anyone would know
because it comes in thick
and you look scruffy
and you light a cigarette and hand it to me
and I say it's bad to smoke before breakfast
and you say it's already half-past two
and soon, I know, the sun will be shining straight through our window,
like melting gold
and the mirror over your dresser
will be suffused with honey,
like the rearview mirror
as we drive away into Autumn and don't look back at New Jersey,
but that was all a dream,
and cicadas make a little sweat on your neck,
and your chest smells like sleep.
We smoke, and I feel like Manhattan,
even though this is nowhere,
this is thy tenement,
and I remember mist,
and wish you were a Roman boy,
so you could toss a roof tile into that lady next door's garden,
because she hates me like she hates cats,
and mistrusts you,
because she thinks your eyes are radioactive,
but all it is
is your honesty
and that which is wrought steadfast.