Manhattan Has No Safeways

On the cliffs of the Palisades,
it is never sure whether what is heard
is the sound –
or the unsound.
Thunder
or the blasting of rock.
The rumbles are low,
and often dimly-sensed
in the background of an empty morning’s distance,
the growling stomach of a half-starved afternoon,
brimming with bare truths.
Truths which don’t ambush
with truculent precision,
but glance haphazardly
over lively lies.
Which is it? You wonder.
Opening and closing the blinds of intimacy
abnormal in actuality, but acceptable –
even ordinary – here,
declarations are made,
then dismissively deleted.
This is where it becomes difficult to hear
what doesn’t ring true.
The one flat note,
the imperfect pitch in the panoply.
From only a short distance,
the reverberation becomes complication,
at first awkwardly noted,
but finally
resonant.
Manhattan has no Safeways,
you remember –
and realize –
lies are always lies.