we weren't spared the same,
or given the same time,
but in springs, summer, and winter,
the shadows cast off the buildings
are all the same;
it's autumn that is different,
stretching another direction
like the knife of love
locked in the lapse of everyday.
every reaction is a boxer
fighting his way towards the sea,
the same place you and me,
and the shadows of NYC
fall off the edge of the island
and drown with the night,
only to be resurrected at dawn.
trust me, just watch.
with sore throat, or even good intentions,
because time travel exists,
in songs and smells,
and especially shadows,
and the way they move.