It’s not even 11 am and you’re distracting me.
I think New York Morning in the dead of winter
is one of my favorite times of life.
Or, rather, New York Morning, outside or next
to a particularly large and uninsulated window
when the sun is out in the dead of winter.
There is a sense of unspoken tenacity in that kind of living,
a quite verve that keeps you moving, even if it is from
the grechka to the Times; it is the time of life
when you keep your gloves on to work.
It is the time for big, ambient music;
for walking across abandoned, frozen Canal Street
before the sun comes up; for Christo.
I still have a square of that orange fabric,
one I’ll probably sew into the hem of a particularly
meaningful dress one day:
it is the color of what I imagine the sun coming up over
the Nile on a winter morning to be.
