NY Minute – a poem by Morgan Driscoll

NY Minute

I stand in the street
no cars, just sun
blazing, off the oiled tar,
my wrists extended like offerings.

Take the blood that moves
below the skin,
red. like the dawn
that barely warms this winter Sunday.

Take it, fill it with light,
leach corruption
from nighttime furies:
the heat that will not keep.

I smell the blinding steam
that rises through
the scent of wants
discarded, met and sallow,

and heave oblations;
snatched from Dionysus
strewn to Apollo.

Brunch to follow.