The air unclenches, buzzes, swells the city like
a blush, cracks the ice around my lungs. There are colors
to breathe again. I suck them in: a voice, the blue
pull of the crowd, her breath red on my hip once. Below,
the river sparkles as if about to sprout fountains.
The bridges hum and pulse, anticipate. Thousands
of faces glance, pass on forever or look, speak; and
out past the darkening windows of “Grill” (where six
diners and counter men are drunk or speaking Greek)
the towers shine: crystal candy and blueberry neon,
lights orbiting them like clustered angels. The sky blue
thickens and puddles above, deepens and spreads
like a warm sleep, or knowledge of some lost object;
the faces stay lit, remain. The days continue.