Love can be found in the city if you look
around corners. Running, a shadow, across
architectural whimsies.

Love can be found in a boy, a girl, dressed only
in gossamer, nude in their clothing, naked
in their intent.

Stand aside from the concrete block feet of the towering city marching by, safe in the rut of its solitude, its quietude; watch as so many run by, chase the bulls, hunt the bear, ride by ensconced on escalators, monarchs of the up and down, while others surge ahead of everyone chased by slavering manic dogs with the scent and taste of blood on their tongues.

There is a dance
throughout this tumult,
fairy rings of fireworks,
sustained burn of home fires,
sparks that cartwheel
through the high and low of the air,
past every obstacle,
to discover
another Catherine Wheel.
Ignited, constant ignition
that has nothing to do with
the traffic jam on the four OH one.

You should know,
the only true commerce
of the city is invisible, cannot
be counted, nor can its index
be assessed, this has resisted
all take-over attempts
and still remains priceless.

It is it, it is love.
It is the illness that cures
itself. What fits it is
it, and only it, until you admit,
it is the bit that makes
a bit of it into more than a bit.
The it and only it—
it fits, and that is what makes it
happen.
Love happens—it can be found
anywhere.

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