She sits across the subway car.

Just an observation:
she is a morphology between the hedonistic urge and the screaming guilt,
a new geometry of beauty
which is traveling along Williamsburg Bridge.

Her lips–
a thin-narrow thread between her inner solitude
and my external celebration of an urban nihilism.

Her hands–
the Orange Book embraced by the sensual-aristocratic fingers.

I see her superimposed on the window
with the background of the empyrean Manhattan,
peeking through the haze of the casual fatigue.

One day I’ll paint her,
over your reflection on the glass wall


2 thoughts on “mona

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