under the williamsburg bridge, i have seen
my ghost broken, my body blessed,
a specific charge spoken to the sound
of a slow trumpet at nightfall. a man
dispossessed chants on the corner of
bedford ave, ‘it’s movin’ time, movin’ time’.
is he not a prophet in this moment?
shall he not be worshipped as a broken seal?
as a form of eden?

just like those girls! there are so many fucking
beautiful women in new york, sharpening
the mist, accommodating our lives together
or apart, it doesn’t really matter. their eyes
should have set off revolutions by now,
i don’t know why they haven’t yet. it’s
probably the same reason we are slit
ear to ear cries of motors instead of
waves, why the moon shrinks from
our smoking and raving in the night.