This is the New York out of time.
This is the New York I lived, that was there.
This is the New York ’scaped the wandering rocks
of greed. This is the New York of souls.
This is the New York of the perceptions.
This is the New York of pure dignity.
This is the New York of pure privacy.
This is the New York of worms, angelic moths.
This is my mother’s New York, of designs.
This is my wife’s New York, nests of artists.
This is my friends’ New York, the town of pals.
This is the New York of dead grey money.
This is the New York of window breezes.
This is my New York. Thank you, Joseph.
On Revisiting the Lifework of Joseph Cornell, 1903-1972
Nov 01, 2011