44 S. Broadway

There is shade here, in the mornings,
when the sun is still hiding
in the sky's shallows. A chill
controls the air, orders each arm hair
to stand up like soldiers. Exhaled smoke
is carried away, abducted, spun around
swirling in this windy valley.
While classy black cabs stop and go,
pull over, open doors for animate bodies,
speed down the road like impatient Charons
on a pavement Acheron, the sky I know
is blue without a glance liplessly spits
ethereal rain. This is only first impression:
it must be stranded water from
my building's roof, blown over the edge
by a bossy wave of air, but still it dots my skin
like needle tips, like the smallest shards
of glass. It makes me look up
at that wide sky; such trickery, contradiction:
the clearest of skies and water falling
from its direction, sprinkling my forehead,
an invisble baptism. I can feel my heart beat
then; I shiver--uncleansed--rattling the drops off
like a dog does. But still the stray rain falls,
subdivides me until I feel fit to dissolve
if I dare, if I am called to.