Dawn in New York has
four columns of mire
and a hurricane of black pigeons
splashing in the putrid waters.
Dawn in New York groans
on enormous fire escapes
searching between the angles
for spikenards of drafted anguish.
Dawn arrives and no one receives it in his mouth
because tomorrow and hope are impossible there:
sometimes the furious swarming coins
penetrate like drills and devour abandoned children.
Those who go out early know in their bones
there will be no paradise or loves that bloom and die:
they know they will be mired in numbers and laws,
in mindless games, in fruitless labors.
The light is buried under chains and noises
in an impudent challenge of rootless science.
And crowds stagger sleeplessly through the boroughs
as if they had just escaped a shipwreck of blood.
My answer to the poem with this sculpture is in a positive tone, in opposition to the poem: In the Bronx, at West Farms subway station, life is lived in the present time, with a real hope. The first people who go to work each morning and take the number 2 and 5 trains know that love is forged in the day by day, that the numbers and laws are for the benefit of the community. Life is hard in New York, but we don’t surrender to the present economic shipwreck, we go out each day to work, to build our paradise in this earth, in this lifetime.
This sculpture is to sit on it, to reunite around it and to talk about life, this life in New York. The intention of my work is to share my interest in being conscious of the present time and space and to respond to them in a relevant way.