Last night we were together again. You moved into my house, flooded the living room and stocked it with giant carp. I watched orange and black fish twist, swirl and peck each other through water dyed brown by the hardwood bottom.
I am in a city of wide avenues and boulevards with island dividers all pointing to the west, where the sunset casts angular light across the stern facades. A few tall trees die of dutch elm disease. Most of the sky is stolen by rooftops. One thin figure paces, scratching his scalp, leaning to sniff for wind, tossing handfuls of meal to hungry pigeons.
Sometimes I forget your name. I will always know your face, your white spiked hair, the blazing morning light through white drapes, how clean it all felt. Your sweet sweaty nape frightened me.
The night before, we’d rode an hour on the subway. Ocean Parkway, you said. I remembered that. Now I’m back. There’s still no traffic, like a Sunday morning, or an August evening when everyone in the world is at Coney Island or Jones Beach.