Thank You For Being, Here

New York knows. It is fully grown. It is what. it is, is what it will be, is: the real world—that is, steel and concrete; black and grey suits; black and grey skies. It does not need us. Froud. Content to carry its own torch, all alone, in the blaring, crowded night; pattering droplets reflecting light; rhythm, rhythm; itself. Miami is a suckling child, cradled between Mother river and sea. This needing, grasping child with glittering sands peeking out from its curls feels the bitter pinch of the tips of the sawgrass on its sacred dirt-caked toes, wiggling like gleaming freshwater fish over subterranean, limestone-bedrock feet. And storms collude to rule its dark raisin face, and blind, it bites the life-giving teet of the Mother, and together now they blacken and boil their clouds, and all is swollen, and Mother and child come down together, crashing. Come down, fattened tears! Come down, passionate flashes of light come down, booming thunder of life! Awash, the child's blooming earth is purified milked dry, the Mother’s afternoon papaya sky is clear, See these spirits nap sweet nothings, bosom-close, to the keeping-time of her spraying waves, breathing rolls, rising swells, falling exhale, floating feather in, out, in out, moonlight whispers, white waving cloth, brown lips’ kiss, fluttering moth, palms with palms, coconuts fall, sister stars above, bless this child… Daynight Mother, come home, paint this child's burning potential with perfume song, with bellysweet love