Of New York City. Source: Olimpia Mosteanu
your arms are streets to walk toward parks and
get lost around houses like creased and battered
chunks of butter
bounded by them my words go adrift, I throw
them around as I walk – hooks to stop you and
feel how I'm slipping,
your arms felt my skin and grabbed the read
words, as if not made of paper but of flesh, I
was city and houses and parks
as I was walking, my body near yours, and you
were city and houses and parks, as you were
dreaming ‘long my body
imagined together, a city of words moving
along your arms.