I can imagine Matteo Pericoli out there
beneath the Brooklyn Bridge counting
trusses and cables and stays. I can

see the world go blue against white
detailing and tiny capital
letters that march arrogantly into

the empty.
Never could keep them

so straight and clean and strong.
My architecture doesn’t lay out
pretty. Still, if I were a character

in a novel, this is
where it would really begin.