In this city that does not sleep,
a voice sends out a diatribe
on the other side of 6:15,
crazed life.
Here in a concrete tree house, glass and steel, block and metal,
(particulate life)
I face west out wide windows washed in dawn
brushing against stackable lives –
the vantage of a demi-god
seven heady floors above the ground
with a grand view from which to watch the inevitable race of time –
mosaic life,
a labyrinth teaming.
Through the night, a never-ending rhythm and clackery
below and above wake me on the hour,
orgasmic life persistently begging,
"Come, breathe with me."
All night, sheathed in sweat
as a fever of inconvenience swarms about,
I listen to the vibrant highs and lows
of the electric city below.
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