After a walk in New York for years ago... And happy days...

But down by the sky.
Between shapes moving toward the serpent
and crystal-carving shapes,
I'll let my hair grow.

With the amputated tree that doesn't sing
and the child with the blank of an egg.

With the little animals (called rats) whose
skulls are cracked and the water, dressed in 
rags but with dry feet.

With all the bone-tired, deaf-and-dumb things
and a butterfly drowned in the inkwell.

Bumping into my own face,
different each day.
Cut down by the sky !

Blood flows, and will flow
on rooftops and skyline everywhere in N.Y.
And burn the blond women's chlorophyll,
after a night in New York.
And groan at the foot of the bed near the
washstand's insomnia,
and burst into an aurora of tobacco and
low yellow.
There must be some way out of here,
some street to flee down.
Happy days in the ???