NEW YORK Poem by Davide Rondoni

Central Park, end of fall, trees
of electric silk and the color of blood
in the cold blue of the sky which rise
open

then slowly turn off
shadow
that is coming, air
that is darkening

And the frozen crown
of the skyscrapers begins to shine
over the darker crowd in the streets.

I ask Oonagh: why do wear your hair like this,
gray at thirty
But dancing she moves the ashes of her head
and her unthinkable sky-blue eyes
draws a magic circle
around Manhattan, makes a fire of herself
and spreads her arms, oars, wings

in the ocean of the evening voices.

You hear her cry out of invisible boats.
In the dark bay.