I sit in Central Park with my best-friend
who doesn’t have best-friends.
The lake is frozen. February is pink
tonight.
I take the subway home. Everybody is
in pretty-love. Our car sings. We have
enough people for a small cult.
This church moves.
New York is blushing, hair down.
I look at myself in the supermarket bathroom.
I can almost see a halo.
