Dan Dănilă

Morning in New York

I can close my eyes

and lean my hot forehead and its stream

of confused thoughts against the windowpane,

hearing life's abstruse roar outside, born

again to follow the sun,

to be busy and hurried,

running down the endless sidewalk

to catch something always faster

than the long shadow I'm casting

Or to obey my own rhythm - I am

a nocturnal being, dreaming by day

and stomping my secret trails

in the fine moonlight sand,

when the air is pregnant with

whispers - to meet the other

night-shift aliens in the jungle

of dark lanes and back alleys,

under bridges, dancing next to

drums set ablaze, singing and playing

the harmonica - or by the river, writing

poems for lovers, five bucks a piece,

and getting drunk on sadness in order

to forget the odor of loneliness

and the howling sirens of perdition

I can close my eyes

and hope, I might just close

my eyes and ...