New York
What can be said
That hasn't been said?
This: The newness of experience
Of every sentient searcher
In their inability, their complete futility,
Of "staying in"
With the magma buzz beyond the window,
The heat and expanse
Beckoning the poet's aching heart
In the coldest month of Manhattan.
February in New York.
All desires derivative of a single step.
We arrive and splay outward the reckless fit of our passion
As we love and learn
New York.
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