New York

Miss statue
waving her metal flame
doggedly this first of March
(whose weather Februarian remains)
scorns this rusted, worn, graffiti-bearing bridge,
sealed from its monstrosity by mist
in simultaneous terms of physics; spirit; history.
It is the same
on either side of foggy separation
this brand of liberty, which candidly
facilitates both polished empire and slum:
spray-can empire,
and the slum that is the filth
within the hearts of you and me.
(to be redeemed…)

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