Chacun voit NY á sa fenêtre

By Lucas Gonzalez

Here in the city,
you won’t see me much.

The craft is vanishing
into large crowds,

crooked hallways
in the cold, cruel park

vapory midnight train cars
ten miles long.

Damp, dead periodical.
An expired license.

Here, caught
in the terminals of want

dining quietly,
full of afterthoughts

each languishing footstep
of the throng

another indent
into sleepless blight;

necessary dreams
of elsewhere

keeping up with dreams
elsewhere beyond it.

Growing up
in a modern world,

the city reaching upward
& burning down

like my early song.
A few hours into darkness

& I’m gone. Even the worst pain
goes away, though, drifting from us

like the empty weight
of this dream life,

lifting, dissolving,
pure painless darkness,

a world beyond this bed,
seldom methodical, or quick

as this flowerpot, as this windowsill,
this day concentrically revolving.

With so many yet
to be come and be gone

to pick up the slack of some lost lease

with so many yet
to be born and be

with so many yet
to see the sun

a thousand dreams
have gone from me

a thousand more
still yet to come.

I have learned the art of loving
for oneself without regret.

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Lucas Gonzalez

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