I like New York in November

when the rain sang Nouvelle Vague.
With our dried bloody dirt shoes, everything seems bittersweet

Down Thirty-second Street one twilight
that first amber fall, or the second unfriendly winter

when our eyes were glued and our faces

cold and rose-colored
alone between the night and days, sun or moon, time slows, wide awake.

He held infinity in his hands.
Always we trace back our ways to Grace Street, New York, New York.