Imagine flying mid-concreteC.D. Wright hath said, more or less. New Yorkers have known this daily.We are a people whose peddles moveAs Huorns root; as hard waters;As tentacular tubes of motionUpon the grey gravelstone walksThat have not the healing powersOf Roman limestone — seawater lithePowder and lith that liquid sunshine Will heal whole. We have its cracksAs places to posture our promised dream.We squirm along, squeal alone,Squiggle in the sea of iron stonesFor a splash of watercolor. For the rose spray On the capstone where the stark colorOf a carved maw — simulacrum —Suggests something unthought:Gargoyles are still goodWhen tamed and turned into a talisman.You are now free to frolic in puddlesAnd gargle the rain; grey runners.