Their Heads Were Glowing

I had seven hundred

big blocks in my bones,

and my home planet

in my head,

when I stopped for rest

along Central Park West.

There was scraped

golden sun paint

down Eighty First Street,

and they poured from the grass

into that summer goop,

the people going.

Their heads were glowing.

Each human

with halos showing,

not knowing

that that was everlasting.

I retreated to the trees,

and lay to see

that through a bright beam

the gnats were flowing,

and their heads, too,

were glowing.

Them, too,

I thought,

as a nearby man

did airplane arms

while running towards a woman,

and the child screamed

for more football passes.