The first morning 
as we issue forth 
from our held hotel door 
the city catches us in 
its purplesque horns 
the pisserment green 
of airbrake trucks and 
rifle rediment wales 
from red firengine sirens. 
Clamor climbs building 
sides to get away from 
the competition of 
rudisensory blubbering 
by regiments of black tires 
that carrent garumbally 
through the government 
of strict gray streets. A not 
full filement of light 
flimmers down from 
a solamentous remove of sky, 
dequivered out of hiding 
above rows of rise-high windows 
framed in stone. Sidewalk 
fields of workers rushwalk 
between towers, unastonished, 
then at last we reach 88th, 
the Guggenheim, to begin 
our slow-waltz turn up up up among 
an exhibit of black and white Picassos 
in a day-long swim of Cubiswirl. 

—From Just Enough Clothes (Garden Oak Press, 2014)

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