In this dream, I walk north
without subways to save
me. Cobblestones stretch out
to island’s blasted end.
Fifth Avenue swallows
up all sidewalks, all grass,
all trees. Ash falls like snow.
Stones crack and crumble. Zinc
white buildings hug the edge.
Chalk men in doorways wait
to cross the streets on this
burnt-out star where we live.
I step on jagged cracks
and ground glass, dodging cars
until I wake, reach Inwood,
or die. I no longer
believe in anyplace
to rest: churches, cafes,
without subways to save
me. Cobblestones stretch out
to island’s blasted end.
Fifth Avenue swallows
up all sidewalks, all grass,
all trees. Ash falls like snow.
Stones crack and crumble. Zinc
white buildings hug the edge.
Chalk men in doorways wait
to cross the streets on this
burnt-out star where we live.
I step on jagged cracks
and ground glass, dodging cars
until I wake, reach Inwood,
or die. I no longer
believe in anyplace
to rest: churches, cafes,
parks that resisted this
once-pitiless fire now
flickered out.
once-pitiless fire now
flickered out.
Marianne Szlyk is a professor at Montgomery College. Her poems have also appeared in of/with, bird's thumb, Bourgeon, and OneSentence Poems. Her books include I Dream of Empathy and On the Other Side of the Window. Recently, she and her husband were part of Pony One Dog Press' reading at the New York City Poetry Festival.
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