Traffic
flows like a steel and plastic snake
in
and out of the Lincoln Tunnel tubes
Me,
sitting on a rock staring down at it all
the
spiked horizon with its ever erect Empire State
rising
out of the mists of gray
Nothing
soft in that place until the fog rolls in
swirling
around it and me
rising
up to its tip so that it seems to ooze with fog
The
soft fabric wrapping around me and the sky line
soothing
our edges with tender rhythms
the
ins and outs, the heavy sighs,
all
born out of an over heated water,
the
river lapping at our feet, our breasts, our eyes
drowning
us with its lace
until
we succumb.
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