The Brooklyn–Battery Bridge in the…

You might make a choice between what descends

with these tiles lined before you, or arcing

forward through a history that is constant against us.

A bridge to block out the dawn. Or monoxide

that passes like breath. My breath. I know all about what’s

underground, and I keep my searches for the invisible

there. In the park above, you’ve got your bike locked

and the chain cut. The stubborn part doesn’t say

anything, doesn’t need to to

start marching home, ugly block, block of shouting, block

syrupy with flies. I would like to hear about it, but I am

backed into an argument myself

on a coil of cool fall breeze, backed through

seasons into the past, home or near it, in the moment

when I’m as right as I’ll ever be bled into

I’ll be this right forever. There’s no out available

for this character, just a decade producing the present,

warm, and then warmer around him.

It was as if I hadn’t seen the harbor, didn’t want to

admit it by doing so now. Something

like a pile of books falls over inside me or

the room I’m in breaks off from the house, slides

almost out of view. All things didn’t happen

or did. You might’ve routed a highway so it

crashes through the seventh floor of

a skyscraper, and the moment for that passes by

us still. You can live like a column of light

pours over you, but that’s not all you’ll see.