You were in a dome tent, on a sidewalk of New York, in the lighted dark of neon and hype, of advertisement and divertissement, of
Tinkling songs,
Or boom box break dance,
Homeless in a city’s rage and rave, in its clutches and tumult,
In its oven and in its range,
Firing range one octave too low, tide,
New twinkling bride, bride-to-be, bride-to-be dark newbie, newborn, unapprenticed apprentice’s apprentice, intern intent on darkened fresh nocturne, frazzled refusal to learn,
Tossed with the trash, in big brash bags, jet black, and sleek, not rip stop nylon, not RIP stop nylon, but to pile on, if you’ve seen beneath a hyped NYC glow refugee refuse in a dimmed retro throw,
Heaped right near dome tents, some of them orange, macabre as a Hallow ‘een decor, hefty, husky, industrial,
Intents and purposes– Mistrial?
Spam of Human Affection 
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