eternal recurrence

the bed, though the window is open

is piled with coats—

light from an unknown source—

a New York City bedroom

walls like coffee cream,

a third-floor apartment

as revealed by the downward

perspective to black pavement

awash in neon

and rain, or melted snow—

an indelible waking scene,

this is no dream—

tires hiss, a yellow cab—

its wet wake a shallow kiss—

the door is closed, the party without—

no other details

but me, alone—

yet absent to all my senses 

she is there—

she is there

I somehow know,

enjoying my despair