times square

twelve stars
above broadway
in a city called new
stare out over a river
with a man’s name
into mists that hide
the horizon

twelve stars
each waiting a turn
to be held by two hands
that reach and keep reaching
toward the next one

twelve stars
of metals inlaid
from long dead suns
the patina of rain and tears
crying like green mascara
down the granite face

twelve stars
too high to hear
the rush of footsteps
chorusing across the boards
of modern thought below