In a tired hurry through Clifton, NJ I long to stretch my head
through the passenger window and bellow out for you Somewhere in
the belly of that city, you were digesting     audibly. 

Perhaps, off the sleeping sides of buildings, I would echo. And
inside the chaotic percussion of liquored tongues, a moment of ironic
quiet would resound. The moment, coinciding with my pang'd drive-by, 
would allow for a call you thought you heard, but were never too sure. 
Your henge'd disposition would hinge on the minutiae of their irises, but
my haunts would stop that absurd eye contacting.

Netcong. Hawthorne. Clifton. Paterson. New York City.

A breezeway of destinations, not one of them.