If in New York Near Torok’s Grave
Cal Freeman

and cold, don’t puzzle
over sprung umbrellas
appearing with the suddenness of rain
and distending with the anatomical logic
of hand-shaped clouds.
The bleared leagues
of glass will make eidolons
and ciphers of Alphabet City’s
encrypted avenues.
There’s one in the hooded
figure of a wolf,
a claustral shield emblazoned with lions
riveted to the gate.
Another overly-tall
with a curved spine that will be hell.
A gangly elevator acquaintance,
a dribbling overcoat,
the smell of zinnias and petrichor
on someone’s balcony.
All trips end in returns that are nonesuch,
but think of how
these bistros must bore the dead,
the mussels tough
and flavorless as coins.