I’m in love with the boy for whom the abandoned warehouse
in North London, quaking with bodies,
trembles with sound and smoke. I look for him
in these rummaging American streets, where strangers glow
in the image of my yearning. Like what Reed told me
about feeling God in the Green Mountains
and in Queens—
New York is a lung of the open world,
and I can’t help but mythicize Him into it.
