We're at the Met
in a lift, surrounded,
having raced through
the ancient sculpture galleries
looking for the secret way, up.
We're in the lift, buried, people deep,
 
almost there, now...

I reach for your hand
The swift undertone of fingers,
Barely met, but too late: already
Doors are opening.
 
We're on the rooftop.
 
The sun - "mine eyes bedazzled" -
in a city now four-times reflected
in Cai Guoqiang's glass;
then twice more, on each side
taxidermied crows lie
on the ledge-edge
playing dead.
 
Summer - Fall, Happy - A Little Bit Sad.
 
The ephemeral bit
we've already missed:
a little black cloud
floating past at noon.
But we've still got the crocodiles
stabbed a hundred-fold,
but still beathing
on the Air-and-Cigarette diet.
 
Delirious New York, indeed.
 
We are in the lift - repeated.
On our way down, not yet out,
Look up!, I tell you.
Into the mirrored ceiling.
Now I'm 20, and you - no more than 30.
Single chins each.

We've had a facelift, I say.
You tricked me, you say.