Dawn

Dawn in New York has four columns of mire and a hurricane of black pigeons splashing in the putrid waters. Dawn in New York groans on enormous fire escapes searching between the angles for spikenards of drafted anguish. Dawn arrives and no one receives it in his mouth because morning and hope are impossible there: sometimes the furious swarming coins penetrate like drills and devour abandoned children. Those who go out early know in their bones there will be no paradise or loves that bloom and die: they know they will be mired in numbers and laws, in mindless games, in fruitless labors. The light is buried under chains and noises in the impudent challenge of rootless science. And crowds stagger sleeplessly through the boroughs as if they had just escaped a shipwreck of blood.