No birds at this height.
No section C of the New York Times.
Look! Ice forms in my boot!

I’d like to send a card to my sister
In Soho, but oh no, I’d have
Nothing to say beyond the banal
And the inconsequential
And how’s your job at Banker’s Trust.

Awe is the price you pay for being
Intimate with nimbus at dusk.
Wish you could be here is all
To forget Mom and Dad. Wish
You could crawl, cut out of your cast
To climb this close to nowhere.