In New York

It’s morning. Sunlight drenched with brilliants
ricochets off glinting towers, and fills
my nineteenth floor with sky – a radiance
poured across the city in waves and particles
that break on the shoreline of my waking eye.
Behind my retina electrons splice
memories into a movie where you’re the star:
a giant projected onto cliffs of glass.

In Baixa, where you’ve finished lunch (salt cod,
suspiros, Douro wine) and talk about
Benfica’s match against Real Madrid,
you’ve no idea, as you sip espresso, that
you’ve just eclipsed Manhattan, with a light
that turns its diamonds into marcasite.

Antony Mair