Brooklyn
Here we dreamed through the waking hours,
forced alert by jet lag and monstrous snow.
A valentine in sub-zero. Wind burn
or gin blossoms on the C train.
A freeze chased us through Washington Square
into the aisles of the Strand. Brooklyn Bridge
stalked the river like a monster.
Have you ever woken from sleep
into an old movie? Here I saw
dystopian gangs in the subway hoardings
monsters scaling skyscrapers. I still recall
the Sri Lankan taxi driver knocking cricket scores,
back towards me over the Hudson.
It wasn’t always easy. Old lovers
and the paths they’d cut through the city.
Epic drunkenness in Brooklyn, candlelight
capsizing the city with its shadows,
the alcohol fuming in our brains.
Later in Time Square, we fell out,
fell back in, negotiated the corners
(it’s not square) absorbed the night
while a jug band defined the indefatigable city,
like someone pouring a drink down your throat
and it’s delicious and you can never break it off.
Pollen
falling over us
as galaxies tumble
through spring space,
the dust of it
kissing our eyelids
and cheeks, the park
reclaiming itself
after winter
in a drift of seed:
sinking to the limits
of pathways, floating
into the far city,
slender probes sent out
to spread the message
of our place
in the universe
how we live in peace
with occasional bouts
of debt and weather,
how we persist
through turbulence
and serenity
and how much
I love you.
The Kindling 