Manhattan

I don’t know how the body functions here or why

it slows but echoes “more,” sirening out the clock, the persistent reminder

while the mind traces work down bottomless lists and schedules. I have seen

the striked words before—papers stacked like crates

against the window—but can’t finish their requests. I am dizzy

with hurry that disrupts the room’s stillness, moving from one task

to the next—a flickering pulse pressed by red-lined

insufficiency. Guilt is energy cranked

through the body, transformed into checkmarks.

Beyond me I watch the city, how even at night it operates, propelled by our closure

of distances and the hum of voices. It is unrestrained

by nature’s laws that tell us to sleep, to pile our tired bones and let darkness crowd the eyes.

It doesn’t oscillate between hurry and still like I do, but moves through

each dark hour to dawn’s violet breaking as if spinning a dress

instead of showing time. This place never falters, never stops,

so why must I? If we are to adapt like the lightbulb’s advancing filament that keeps burning, to peel back survival and find something more, unaware

that persistent waking mars the mind into an endless gutter, a space overgrown

with skyscraper expectations—how can I not turn to you, Manhattan,

to understand what consistent, undying energy is, as you overwhelm

days with your dimless motion no human can replicate, can last through.

Published by Crazyhorse