I pour up Broadway in the early afternoon
Trying to get home home or not home and I see you
Lean out your window 12 floors above me
Like a gargoyle smoking a cigarette and I think
At that height anyone can be a lover
Or a stone woman and I think
Angels grow in your hair
Voice sounds like cheap champagne
Bubbling into me
You, the architect
Making this building live against the too-blue too-clean
Sunday morning sky
I trail on by
Suspended above the scene you are pulling us all up there
The building, the street, the metro
It is the third day
She is risen
She exhales perfect rings

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Something like Eldridge
Cleaver meets John Lennon