Times Square

Ian Walters

the subway pulled a bird from Williamsburg
with old metal hands and old metal art
though its little heart clattered against it
and outwards to the rails, but its body was so brittle
and its legs were old toys and it could hear
its ankles crackle when they stirred the train light

the walking tunnel peels and is forgetful
and warps like a blurry container with water spots
while thirsty little peddlers listen with eyes like cups
in the skin they stole from the lights above
mirroring a creaking broken bird whose body once
cast its lining, now bits of its bristle huddle
cast in lime dust from the grout and the tile

to be an orphan in one’s own body it said
I must lift me up and make me like before
and so, and so, in the bloom of Times Square
where the air is almost real
and the tallest coffins glitter
in the most perfect of dreams.