Sarah Rosenthal

from Manhatten

Dear M,

Night borrows thunder
from your July
White lines of light
rip havoc across your grid

Bones grind on your surfaces
while below
vocations jostle, positioning

You feed on solo

History's your thug
fixing market rates
futures and bellies

A walk in the park is arranged
An exhibit

Do your souls evaporate
but also
do I love you

This rose is for
your long-stemmed vase