I Love You More Than All the Windows in New York City

The day turned into the city and the city turned into the mind and the moving trucks trumbled along like loud worries speaking over the bicycle’s idea which wove between the more armored vehicles of expression and over planks left by the construction workers on a holiday morning when no work was being done because no matter the day, we tend towards remaking parts of it—what we said or did, or how we looked— and the buildings were like faces lining the banks of a parade obstructing and highlighting each other defining height and width for each other offsetting grace and function like Audrey Hepburn from Jesse Owens, and the hearty pigeons collaborate with wrought iron fences and become recurring choruses of memory reassembling around benches we sat in once, while seagulls wheel like immigrating thoughts, and never-leaving chickadees hop bared hedges and low trees like commas and semicolons, landing where needed, separating subjects from adjectives, stringing along the long ideas, showing how the cage has no door, and the lights changed so the tide of sound ebbed and returned like our own breath and when I knew everything was going to look the same as the mind I stopped at a lively corner where the signs themselves were like perpendicular dialects in conversation and I put both my feet on the ground took the bag from the basket so pleased it had not been crushed by the mightiness of all else that goes on and gave you the sentence inside.