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Those who sleep, doubt, fall
on their faces from lying positions
while the dross of street lamps and chatter
of night-shift life run on the darkness.
Sleep is the ordination of senses.
Let the lonely bureau preach it,
confident in its bowl of change.
Let the options of interpretation remain
throughout the morning until in the rebus
of day, day descending, the ambiguity seems
specific: kiss at the top of a Grand Central stair,
cool as the tunnel breeze, her and her leaving
with the city slung over one shoulder.
For this to happen the world must be
both stubbornly lawful and temporary.
For the city to appear so clearly and suddenly,
the heart must be godly; sleeping waking.
Confirmation then was in her touch sinking in;
When the dream recurs, then what?
You’ll know Grand Central Station was everywhere
on a rainy day when you leaned out and kissed
at the top of a stair—the city resurrected.