The birth of Seventh Avenue
from Varick Street at night
is out of surf, all moonshine
as it breaks along the curb,
coming, flooding, and falling away.
In it, matter’s savagery
extrudes a civic fault, a man
wading in moonlight blocks
away, hunchbacked in the shape
of things before my birth,
beyond my death, and now,
panicked by night alive.
I fear the animal embrace
of Venus’ negative half-
creature of the universe,
whose wildness, let in out of love,
must be the genius of this place.
His Hands Have Five Knives Each
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