PSH

 

A death in New York, the city
slept for once, the moment noted
only by passing, by shards of news
embedded in flowing rivers of ice
and snow…the sound of that one
dry and desiccated leaf struggling
to hold onto that one tree—without
other leaves—on that one village
street where snow leaned on fences,
cold white shoulders pushing against
black iron, against the push back of
reality…a grasping and rasping
sound as wind vibrated it against
the concrete like bark of that
one tree…while an anonymous wind
wound its way from the upper east
side, canyons called avenues,
through side streets of small stores
and large buildings…past places
where actors called out in darkened
theaters, where the lights were warm
and the air frigid…a simple wind
provoked by nothing, moved by physics
rubbing against a single leaf
on that one tree, creating a small
seesaw sound, a tiny frequency of
motion outside a bathroom window
unheard by the ears of the dead man
on the floor, ears that once heard
more than most, orbited eloquence
and suggested melancholy…the leaf
sang it’s song, it’s only song
grasping rasping holding on to that
one tree…on that one village street
in the city where he fit the best
and lived until he didn’t and was
never an anonymous wind.

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