revised poem

new york is shrinking the water is fermenting soon it will be vodka and all the potatoes will shrivel in our mouths, our honeysuckled mouths and our minds, too, will be combed and the wax in our ears collected and discarded: the noise will become crystalline and unbearable.

a man falls to his knees beneath the slate-gray sky, halfway hoping for lightening. "help," he cries, "but not now!"