poetry: false starts?

The ripped girl gathers herself,
draws into the recess of a downtown
highrise, then cries as if alone into
the body of an indifferent building.

The black feathers of her party dress
forsake her, dead flutter falling round
her arms. Having flown through many autumns,
in other clear, martini dusks, their circles

kept growing smaller till they settled
at nothing, save decoration. Now currents
are senseless and wild, still sweeping warm
across the public ponds, just wind.

Around the corner a man in a tuxedo looks
bored, always waiting. She's borrowed
his handkerchief. Profile of the Napoleonic
sphinx, yes. Yet something struggles

beneath the dial of his face. He craves
the crowd, its wandering breach and flow,
hears a genuine laugh bob up and wants
to follow it home, all the way through

the city, to any lit place beyond him. Night
is pending. Its tributaries flow, spilling
fast onto the sidewalk; something wet and plumed
to catch him. Like feathers raining. Like wings.

- Erin Belieu, "Outside the Hotel Ritz"