O New York – I mean Manhattan –
pagan as a Christmas pine
the many-coloured lights enchanting
slippery rain-slicked macadam.
A snip of jazz – a grainy sequence
in black and white – something
comes each year as the curtain falls
on August and September rises, steadily
sure as a full-blooming back-to-school moon. . .
and I think of Nietzsche’s eternal returning –
the ring around the rosy glow
of someone’s laughing memories –
of running with Bruno across the park
of library cards and notebook dreams
and O, the heart’s strange and unsuspecting feast