A mad dash down the stories, flight by flight,
and you have just begun to pant, to sweat.
Out on the street the darkest New York night
for years is going on. Star-clusters lend
a rural twinkling, and a bum has set
the contents of a garbage-can alight,
and you can just discern your giant friend
the Visionary vanishing. A pack
of thugs is dragging him into a black
Humvee. They squeal away past Chelsea Park.
You rip a Citi Bike out of its base
and take off after taillights through the dark
streets southward. Pumping at an all-out pace,
your naked soles go raw by 20th.
By 16th you are almost out of breath,
but on you pedal, butt high off the seat,
and then at last the twin red lights start burning
brightly. The outsized jeep is slowing, turning
west toward the Hudson on 11th Street.
The taillights darken at the riverside.
You ditch the bike and dash on bloody feet
just near enough to see them drag the seer
into a creaking warehouse on a pier.
Though in your underwear, you have your pride
to push you onward. You canít let your friend
be murdered, you canít let the known world end.