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)