From the Russian blue dome inlaid
with constellations I float up through
the underground eateries’ tile glow
and cab it from Park Avenue
fifteen years since Claudia auctioned
one of Lois’s bronze cows at Cipriani’s.
It’s all still here, ochre and marmoreal,
cathedrals soaring through creosote,
inwardly fired, brooding jewels,
retail-grown calcite and tourmaline,
distilled into apothecaries, boutiques
for every tinct of tea tree oil
I once bought believing
the cure for every ill curatorial.