At the lip of Manhattan,
the wind makes our hair seem immature.
The sky is dark with fat stars preening themselves
for dangerous centuries ahead as if beneath ice.
You’re eating glazed shrimp, tail and face.
My glass of water is murky. The air scolds.
I wanted to be a clamshell with something
beautiful inside, but I am a lobster and
now, you have realized it as well.
I’m crazy like God is. My pupils frostbite
black, ambitious as suicide. You smell of
hydroponic tulips. You want to end us.
Your blue eyeshadow ruined. My blood is
petty as we sit. Eraserhead baby little idiot yuck.
I am a twenty–first century bitch who can’t love.
New York will be the biggest coat I ever own.
I begin to cry like Bellagio over your plate of
dead things because all I can do is this.
Just this. Forgive me.
