On Approach

It is by abandonment
I come to this place
of landing, this state
of delivered from evil
or angels mind. Through clouds,
descent, 

the wing behind me, The City
below, 

a capitalization
I won’t deny. The loss
of symmetry is
only part of the story.

Across the City

To E.B. White

Rain on Park Avenue
South, I walk the boulevard
strip looking for a break.
Let me in, let me cross,
let me be 

in New York strolling without
longing for a face
I’ve never seen. Umbrellas
collide into one another
over sidewalks washed off 

as an Impressionist painting blurry
as the view I had
before glasses, before
knew there was no cure
for this thirst.  Let me in,
let me cross, let me be 

here—this city, here is
New York, compressing,
stressing, confessing to
all life this small island still.

Bridge

For MJN crossing beneath,
for NYC connecting across,
for The Brooklyn Bridge rescue working destiny 

Advance your vantage
point,
this bridge,
collapse your facade of steel,
your gutted concrete floor. 

Collide your bridge maker
with mine,
collage your instinctive hand
over mouth with my eyes shut,
vocal chords spewing forth— 

a scream
a void 

to coalesce to convalesce
on one bridge
of material unidentifiable yet.
Coordinate the crossing,
bare feet, dust, and ash caked faces 

no veil could protect,
suits meaningless,
ties undone
till they become arms swaying,
a human chain
of events. 

A human behavior changing
never
no way
when
now 

your bridge maker, mine,
his, hers.
They designed bridges
to be passageways.
Make them destinations 

to be good to get no further
than this, this bridge
cannot be
a boundary
because bridges connect. 

It is still where it has been,
the destination stands
between these pedestrian elevating towers
still here.

Waterfalls Are Made (or, Olafur Eliasson’s “New York City Waterfalls”)

As I admire water
falls as art, I lose
my anxious desire
for a chance 

encounter with you. I never forgot you. Mainly scaffolding,
pumps, and piping, physics of the tangible
after inebriation splashes
into the river 

of our souls. I know you
had one. Did you know
too? The East River is not really a river—
it’s a strait. Did we really converge 

in a place where fresh and salt meet?
Did we meet at all? Lost in the mist
of my quiet life, I would not hear,
or see you, if you did approach behind me 

till that empty basin
of a voice was spilling sound
through the air I breathe. 

What do you think of this? 

I would try to ignore what I think
I recognize because a quiet life requires
uninterrupted mesh
with holes to protect whatever might swim 

into the loner’s intake filter pool.  Fish might not penetrate
the fabric, but I can’t resist—I turn. There 

you would be well
into midlife, like me. It wasn’t you,
it was the City I left
to catch my breath for 18 years. 

Woman, is that you? Man, is that you? 

Where we once moved in the dark
toward young urgency striking off
the planes of our bodies, we would now stand still,
stone pillars. The Brooklyn Bridge has sprung a leak, the world 

is turning in
on itself. Wind trumps water, but not gravity. Water sways on its fall
below concrete and steel and wood. And still it’s the water
I bet my life on.