I’m not complaining.
I’m not complaining that the streets of New York are drowning in breasts. They’re good breasts.
If eyes were fish and breasts were the air of the breathing world, the eyes of the whole city would have by now flopped right out of every head dead, gasping for water.
It’s a rain, a hard rain that’s soft and easy to take. It’s a gullywasher for the retinas, making the red clay around my dry heart rush.
It’s a hard rain, yeah- a “male” rain, as the naturals of this continent might have put it- but anatomically female.
In the 14th ward they laze behind distressed cotton and filmy things, unconcerned that there below the low necklines where they do the due diligence to appear hidden they are no more concealed than above the torn T-shirt collars, the frenzied decolletages.
On the island in the office they perk through sun dress filters and play at innocence and ignorance of the question of appropriateness of attire.
They’re good breasts, no one’s complaining in the board room when the board is quite apparently not flat.
New York swims in breasts and makes all us watchers lifeguards.
The breasts themselves fight through summer amongst each other as a merrymaker in Times Square fights through the crowd on New Year’s Eve.
In New York now, in the summer, on the eyes, on the extended tongue of the mind, the weight of sugar.