January In New York

Black ship of night sailing through the world & the moon an orange slice tangy to the teeth of lovers who lie under it, sucking it. Somewhere there are palm trees; somewhere the sea bluely gathers itself up & lets itself fall again into green; somewhere the spangles of light on the ocean dazzle the eyes; but here in the midnight city, the black ship of night has docked for a long, dark stay, & even the citrus moon with its pockets of juice cannot sweeten the dark. Then the snow begins, whirling over the Pole, gathering force over Canada, sprinkling the Great Lakes with sugar which drowns in their deep black cups; it is drawn to the spires of New York & the flurries come scampering at first, lighthearted, crystalline, white, but finally sucked into the city as into a black hole in space. The sky is suddenly pink- pink as flesh: breasts, babies' bottoms. Night is day; day is whiter than the desert; the city stops like a heart; pigeons dip & veer & come to rest under the snow-hatted watertanks.