an after-lunch Manhattan.
raising its best
truth or dare questions
to a clouded blue
on top of
pillars
like
buildings.
glass-houses are see-through
on days with enough light.
That they would frame a utopia
from steel and neon signs,
side-walkers use cigarettes
to incense city shrines,
floating on vapourized
nicotine like the sky fell down
on 33rd street.
I shouldn't have to breathe
easier underground.
Copyright © 2010 Arielle John
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