AngelsWe’re in Brooklyn, thinking Manhattan.
Too far away for tonight,
to take the L or G or J across or beneath
the river would mean to ride
out the medium before
getting to the other side.
We’re in Brooklyn thinking Manhattan.
Too old this early,
and we carry ourselves
like night ramble and we suddenly
realize we’re in Brooklyn,
thinking rooftops—to get higher
would be to get somewhere.
The sun’s still out. We just had lunch,
carrying beer in paper bags
like they were shoes.
We’ve carried shoes before.
When walking across the bridge,
we often forgot the medium.
We’ve left Brooklyn, passing the river.
We must get closer, get higher.
To wear shoes is to get somewhere,
so we took off our shoes,
thinking, We’ve passed Brooklyn.
We carried ourselves
close to the ground, so as to be
lifted from underneath.
We’re in Brooklyn,
thinking heaven; to be lifted tonight
could carry us through
the blurred measure—everyone
in Brooklyn has ruined
for their own measure.
We’re in Brooklyn, we’re on rooftops.
The sun’s not out.
We drink the day’s beer and tell stories
about Brooklyn. This morning a woman
took my waist in her hands, and told me
she could fix it—the dress would be
ready on Saturday, her hands stronger
than I imagined. I tell you this
in Brooklyn, no longer Manhattan.
I have known wings before.