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.