This agéd Brooklyn.
It made the evening before this
tire with arthritis.
The bricks from the buildings
to feed for the rodents of winter.
I watched a rat
run across the platform at 7th Avenue.
I held your veiny hand tightly.
This place was reliquary.
You pressed your big breasts into me closely
and we kissed
with your sour alcohol breath dominating
the air of squalor.
It’s fermentation was so Earthling.
I knew you could do no wrong.
So I looked to your bloodshot blue eyes
as if fresh flowers in a field I would not
visit that summer or next.
The pretension of New England
I never understood.
and aching to be naked.