it is even possible
that this month
the country boy
from the east county
will find himself
in the middle of
Times Square:
the smell of dogs and pizza
arousing the dregs of his desire.
the taxi horns honking
their urban aria.
the neon pulsing
against his beating heart.
the remaining scrapers
kissing the sky
in their best Hendrix impressions.
the anxious crowds
navigating around him in the streets
as he holds his reverent
and stunned silence
like a spirtual offering
in the palm of an otherwise
empty
hand.
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