And what about: again? If not explode,
then fracture, blaze. Or, leave. One year I wrote
three hundred sixty five laments. The next
I watched two lamps burn out at once. The wreck
of me sees every city, gone. Each night
the train implodes: my own New York set right,
then overturned like bowling pins. My god.
But really: what about again? What could,
what if, what next. I may not run so fast
next time—not knowing what I know: a blast
of sky, and time; of scientific pap.
I need a nap, a borough in my lap
to stroke to sleep, another year of peace,
a bang, a bigger bang. I need release.

Preparedness: a myth. Imagine it:
two city rivers overflow, converge.
Graffiti-covered handball walls afloat—
new arks—above the subway cars submerged
like sunken ships. Two weeks ago a row
of stubborn Brooklyn brownstones doffed their lids
to twisters, skylighting the high lit glow
of street lamps bending at the waist from winds.
Undone beneath the raised hand of the bay
my house abuts, one year the water touched
our knees before we fled. But flood’s not much
compared with these cyclonic days. No way
to gauge you: wrath or pleasure, unfixed track
away or toward. Untoward, you leave no wake.