On the grid

On the grid is every New York story.
And every New York story is a story
of noise, of impossible perfection.

On the grid, I am licking cinnamon dust
and pink marker pen off my fingertips.
A man in a forklift truck plays with his phone.

On the grid, flux is swirly, as is the crazy idea
you can win here, rather than be a reflection of a
reflection in someone else’s skyscraping dream.

On the grid, I saw a boat marooned on the side
of a silver bullet museum; I thought,
“Captain you don’t know the 3/8ths of it.”

On the grid, you are meant to fear fear less here.
Throw your old era New Era caps in the air,
celebrate this vintage tale, the high image of everything,

On the grid, to compound it all compound interest
doesn’t work any more. You stroke my left bicep to
wake me; it’s the best touch I’ve ever had.