A third moon-bath cleanses New York dank
of chromium swaddle, brute degrees of dactyl soot –
one flash exponential to the 94th relevation.
Boom box humidity smudges the refrain
the croon spiked with inescapable orbits
luggage impermeable to purpose, depleted
of feral plaid and souvenir.
O’ those badly shampooed angels who trouble
the pool, ruffling the streets,
too young to know
the jaundiced fruits of 2 am, impoverished neons
painted on the retina,
flight with one foot on the ground.