The Turning

In New York
sleep was a  blessing,
A simple gift of grace
that crept past the sound of horns
and the backing and clanging gongs
of trash trucks,
of sleepless dreamers
dancing below and screaming
in the way city people do
at night.

In the filth of constant lights
there is a joy that lazes
and is less and less detectable
below the patina
where everyone must scrape and scratch
to the joy that lazes like laughter
in copper.

The rapid walking;
heels clicking
with collar turned up
against the wind--
enough to make
everyone turn and look
at silence fallen like blocks
pushed over again and again
by an eager toddler.

Stop at the window of the bakery
and catch a glimpse
of the gray ghost
you are becoming.

Lost in the vapor,
less than an exhale.

Lost in the vision
disappearing around the corner
of my eye.