Rolling thief, looting images, sucking poetry from the streets
of Berlin, rich pickings for one so long away from New York.
Voices queueing on the night phone, clammer to access my room.
This digital life, this philosophy of Love in a Glass Car,
poaching city voices, carried like dust on the wind, familiar
for the first time only as I watch your busy feet go sky-walking,
high on the walls of decaying buildings, the ones I still find