Burnt Ticket

Snow lingers in my pockets, the entrance to Grand Central, bearing witness to an unseen ceiling . Something soon will happen, something’s gone wrong/, a bunch of waiters wailing ,/it’s the tips they collected/ before their search for tickets./ The air, always, a blue cellophane in strips, it wafts through minarets / one banshee after another shrieking in a choir/I bypass bodies on makeshift biers. /Three lonesome miles to the edge of the city,/three hours later, deer crossings,/ dusk brought about by hand /in an iron cathedral, mangoes sold, delicacies,/ like splinters of the true cross;/those whores burn a hole in your pocket/ I’m upstairs in the print shop /for an hour after daylight,/I’m a willing part of this contentment,/ in a headquarters condemned to rock

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