The Brooklyn Bridge is
an array of lights
stretching limb to limb
across the water.
It slaps tiny sequins on the east river,
as those give way
on that anything but black and steady
to blinking eyes on the barges
and the flittering stingers of heliccopters
zipping from cloud to cloud.
This orchestra of human expansion
reddens the black walls
of my apartment,
with light.
The scratchy comforter
and starch-hardened pillow
scramble on my bed
in a mess of rifts and fabric mountains.
I love getting up
in the middle of the night
and staring out of this window,
but when I go back to bed,
the voices of the wasps,
mournful barges,
and falsetto of the old springs
give way to thinking
and restlessness.
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 10:00 AM UTC
The Brooklyn Bridge is
an array of lights
stretching limb to limb
across the water.
It slaps tiny sequins on the east river,
as those give way
on that anything but black and steady
to blinking eyes on the barges
and the flittering stingers of heliccopters
zipping from cloud to cloud.
This orchestra of human expansion
reddens the black walls
of my apartment,
with light.
The scratchy comforter
and starch-hardened pillow
scramble on my bed
in a mess of rifts and fabric mountains.
I love getting up
in the middle of the night
and staring out of this window,
but when I go back to bed,
the voices of the wasps,
mournful barges,
and falsetto of the old springs
give way to thinking
and restlessness.
I don't really like this poem for some reason.
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