asphalt, Park Avenue
dry leaves, cigarette butts
under the feet
migraines – outlook

liquidity of light
entrance to the metro
an urge for a drink
metallic voice ‘s piercing the air
and the direction is love

Union Square – pigeons are the same,
maybe too gray
neckties are drifting aside,
sound of many heels

we used to stroll
here, darling
but this asphalt
doesn’t remember our steps.

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