Union Square. Three o'clock. There's
a gypsy in front of a fountain, a
mountain of bones and muscles walking,
this way that way ANTS! A city
of ANTS! in different clothes, sporting
different colored skin, bird shit on
the pavement, over there the Buddhists
perform magic that is music with their
throats, tongues unexposed, commuters
exit the train station underground, sparrows
back 'n forth, there has to be a hundred or
more ANTS in my line of vision, some
desperately needing circumcision, trying
to get this out with precision, when every-
thing around us is bonafide illusion.

The sun spotlights a brick building, a hospital,
twenty-six stories high, two towers on a tri-
angular base, trees lining the roof, the way
a city bus shrieks on every corner, that's how
I think of you.