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.