We Piss Together in The Sheep Meadow of Central Park

We piss together in the sheep meadow of Central Park

While christians argue at krishnas

I do this because the spirit moves me

I ruminate on your wet thigh. I love everything

that reflects a brightening moon and when you notice me

looking, you leave the moisture and light

My hips and I can only hear the bagpipes

for a dead cop and our pulse

I blush as a horse trots over the hill

What a magnificent beast. I’m infatuated with the distance

the sound of its hooves travel. Each step softens

the traffic on 7th. to the tenor of a wet bronzed leaf

flung from black marble. Colliding with wonder. We are

the city’s solar prominences. Your earrings are lit

by rope lights warming the stage. I want for bed

as you stand and smooth your skirt.

Accordions squeeze slightly from the wind,

grey flannel veils the shimmer down your leg

and I think of the badness of my youth

and the goodness I want to do.

Hope is still there if I arrange its memory,

but Schrödinger is dead and the pink lit

pedicabs detach from the meadow