Survivor Poem by Morgan Michaels

There goes the 5: 15 gliding out of La Guardia.
Going who knows where- Spain?
bellowing yellow and red- so very high!
Each day, the same time, same run.
You can set you clocks by it.

Here where the sky is mild and bowl-like
skiff-like birds boat about-few, not lots
skulling gently, reaping a windfall of nothing,
peering down, looking for something,
poking their beaks in naught.

The sun glints off their necks.
They slip into the vacuum of their making.
Also, there are clouds, pink at the rim,
Thinner, there, than at the massy midst.

Across the street, the projects go
no where fast, as usual.
There and here, through the gloaming
a greenish window-light appears-
squarish port betokening life-
elsewise dark and theoretical.
And, now, surprise, one blinks out!

Here on this terrace-
follow my finger, see!
north, toward Marble Hill.
Can you see how things will go...?

Toward Inwood, where it...