Clare Flanagan

is dreamsicle-orange, a hair shy

of full, its belly dragging

on the roof of the pre-war co-op

that overlooks the elliptical plaza, with

its irregular, rain-eaten cobblestones, paths

that turn my ankles, its garish fountain

dry as a hungover mouth. If someone 

touched it––the moon, I mean––it might

roll, gathering speed, until it flung itself

over the edge, plummeting nine stories

to the empty street. Perhaps 

it would burst open, casting a fine,

glittering sand over the floodlit arch, 

the gyro carts humming in the shadow

of the public library. Or maybe 

it would leave a deep crater 

into which I might walk, by accident, 

grateful to be spared the work

of my own disappearance. In all

little else would change––the stars,

faint and indecipherable, the ceaseless pumping

of a distant bassline, as though the night

were wrapped in a pressure cuff, God

eyeing the gauge, filling His invisible clipboard 

with vital signs. Every few minutes, a figure

visits the traffic signal––a phosphorescent

angel, faceless, wingless. Every night

I am reminded that every place

is the place you left me behind.