Reflections on Boston

If I stood, toes pointed forward, at the walls of ebony stone and watch the endless gallons dive, deep pits of New York; imagine the steel crashing thunder, smoking tower higher, bodies diving deeper, deep pits of New York, but if I stood, toes pointed forward, at the walls of ebony stone, rose up to the endless sky, soaring to the North, to the East, landing on a runner's boulevard, breaking the tape. Imagine flashing vortex wrenching forward, the pulling us back, black holes, dark doorways transporting us deeper into the deep pits of New York. If I stood, hands raised upward, on my miniature desk screamed for my lovers and my mothers, barrels staring lidless, soulless, a machine's heart but if I stood, hands raised upward, on my miniature desk, my rib cage will collapse on itself, draining all that I am into my chest, I would come out the other side, with my toes pointed forward, at the walls of ebony stone, watching the endless gallons dive, deep pits of New York.