Magnolia

Breast Song in New York

Suddenly I saw breasts among
curious mosquito casings,
on sheetrock and void construction sites—
crane-cabs leveraged between Duane Reade and the Blue
Moon cheap cigarette bodega.
I thought, wow,
wow,

I didn’t expect this.
I had felt it in dreams as small rooms, a rush
of white veils too young, too soon.
I sweated and cried,

Now’d be a good time to believe in that God:
le’o’lam ul’al’mai almaya, forever and ever
please forgive my rude ignorance, find ghosts
of cleavage in black dresses.
Father, this broken bosom,
I am no longer a galaxy, or dancer
in the meadow of orbital motion.

My star seems to have gone by too fast.
It’s the eternal first avenue of His nonappearance,
a 6 train grate of fleeing bosom,
within me a torrid breeze rises
like a husband’s touch between sun and sun.

pretty young chinese girls staying young girls

oh young girls—

primping coronas and blush-drinking dahlias
in wallpapered rooms on Main Street
you ronde-de-jambe far
from wet Narcissus blossoms
and brush of azalea.
You point your pink toe shoes
on new hardwood floors;
you block awareness of growth                                
the way the Fujian white crane
steps aside and obstructs
the stick with its wings.