This is Pleasure Poem by Antony Rowland

The marsh finches date the skyscrapers
as Central Park lashes, your eyes too cool
for neon wrap Katz Deli, pastrami:
lovely to meal you among the sneeze,
squeeze and toot of this city, the PLEASE SLOW DOWN.
Desire is a red telephone
in a speakeasy as your legs breeze the past
and tape masks your bones in Jimmy's lag-hole
as we drink to the tankard of being
after turbulence and the square horizon.
Baked sun promises violence by lacquer duck
where the mushrooms dry Mulberry Street
by former tongs and the jade of bok choi.
Floored in Tile Bar, you break my parch
and then dry my ears too wet for truth.
Now it's over, easy. The party's started, right?
DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT STOPPING HERE.