There Isn’t

There isn’t anything, any day, any freighter
to the Sea

There isn’t

any night was born to be in winter

Over Crown Heights, Brooklyn

her laughter drops upon the dead gray stairs
I first helped her

to the rooftop the cold ass air crimped her lips

with every puff of her cigarette

she let go to the city what would become poetry
in an ancient, everlasting moment

the manner of stone

that frames me, gives me farmhouses, trees,
New England mountains and orchards

that I remember

There isn’t, there isn’t anything, anywhere, in the
schoolyards back there

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