The blur of Brooklyn
broken bottles, early-pre-war histrionics,

blithe birthing chambers –
the city bursts from the thighs of such a night.

Knickerbocker negligee, a second hand wanderer, drunk boys in Bushwick shouting for phantom lovers on the street corners. The light of traffic signals and old cars, a flowering yellow, green, red on their foreheads, the dizzying lushness of Dutch townships. The brownstones, cobblestone, hearthstone. She comments that street's no longer have names, just numbers.

Wythe Avenue where the graphite left like breadcrumbs in the Neolithic wood points to the one way signs, because in New York there is only one way.

I will not suck the lights inward; gaze at the old cars littering the walkways.

Street art where whispers stir the air.

The brick façade, crumbing yet intact, the garbage collecting underneath the windowsills, the honey scented young girls who grew up here and travel here, lovers in a natural habitate, your skin tastes like
forbidden fruit .

The statues of strangers beckon you home.