Jacob Riis Beach

Behind the decrepit hospital,

next to the jetty, you paced the shore

with your camera. Red gym shorts and Nike

slides, your dark hair in a low bun.

It was your job to document the beach

before its demolition, and once, in a fit of mania,

we drove out in total dark at 4 am—

you sped past the stone church

on Flatbush, talking with your hands.

The sun rose as we stepped off the boardwalk.

We slept on blankets you kept in your car.

When we woke again, distance swimmers

were arriving by bicycle. Now, at night,

far from the city, I picture the contours

of your face until they become like any other

woman’s. I make myself imagine a deserted

room where people like you and I could meet.

Damp brick walls, cracked windows.

Then I remember its absence. In the end,

there is only exposure: the wind-blown recess

where a building stood.