Large, like storm drops,
catskills fall on the roof of the cortège
as we cross the avenues.

In sunlight, our Mercedes
is as black and bright as jet stone
and as sluggish as tar.

It edges by degrees,
like eyelids toward sleep,
languid as perfume and hot leather.

Outside, the city unfolds like a hand
extending its towers
and flexing its birches at the sky.