Great mishaps have

brought me to this borough:

radial blue—circles 

browsing through the air.

electric yellow—waves

soaring through one’s hair.

motley brown—grounded

firmly in ground’s roots.

All of this I have seem to forgotten,

for Long Island’s severed truths.

Justice did me no right by

telling me two weeks in advance

of my move to this foreign land,

away from Pax, food-stands

illuminated, timbers truncated,

street lights glowing prominently

in the night’s opulent distractions.

Crossing the avenue, we had

finally made it Home—this avenue

that no longer demands a name,

for remembrance rings staunchly

like Aurelius to Rome.