The trees in Brooklyn are the same color
as cooked hamburger.
I know the song of the cardinal
and it goes a little something like this.
Pangs twist a belly, until it dawns, eat! The light in
early December hurts my eyes, and yours?
A chilled apple, a lit candle, and early
blues. The smell of wormwood,
somewhere, is making me think of Long Island
City. What a person does on a Saturday is
purposefully radiant and productive. If
a stroll under the Manhattan Bridge brings
solace, go there. If a hat provides joy, they
are sold all over the place.