in breathless insomnia, a Van Gogh of lost lucidity
with the colors of madness, and the half-genius of delirium.
But in sewer's steam, in the humidity of industry, Williamsburg
brought me rest and distance. I stepped on soft grass
and sat near the water.
The Navy in white cotton rode for Staten Island,
and spent the ferry searching for company.
The air was cold mist and the city swelled into our wake.
Above Central Park, I heard the chords of a dense, hidden hymn
emanate from the MET, matching history with chaos,
where a green quilt is the lifeblood of this neighborhood.
On each block, I found the constant chemical reaction
of hot life. In each park, I found the holiness of empty space.
And in the street, I found a home.
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