for new york
a toast to words that refuse sleep,
acrimony of brie and starlight balconies.
tonight, waist-deep in unruly mouths,
i tromp to shake sixty different hands.
i love them each, know their sweat and callus,
caress and sugar, not a one stranger.
yes, you are mine. each of your fingers
testimony to god in this boy's backslide—
and i am yours.
to you: may your books rise like bread
from the desks of your insecurities, locked,
drowning in imported spirits. may christ
may the presidents bow to your
whims, may the children confound you with talent.
may your dervishes whirl the way you love it.
and let me watch you, kiss your cheeks,
return, be seated, still.