You are so far below;
I think of your smile and borough light
burns into the black of my nighted above; endlessly
and endless, as in sidewalks and streetlights
that carry westward to where no one knows
how to move steam to flame and singe
lines through sleeping towns. Down there
you are more beautiful than I, there
you smile and I fall, but here
I find the ground where poets were born
and dreamt Manhattan as if words
could build towers; I find the towns
they grew to dazzling light and burned
as my imagined own; I cry out
for jet sets and sun downs,
but find horizons bleeding together
and thoughts of turning leaves
once bed sheets are ruffled; land reaches
tail feathers and I cannot escape: as orange pier light
disperses into haunted blue,
I look at my wingtips to find embers
blown and stoked across the horizon
showing my path across the Atlantic
like a phoenix trailing fire.