the city is quiet now, worn out from
carving the skyline out of a long-exposure stream of light;
buildings slumbering at angles unnatural create cricks in the neck and a sharp burning sensation in the heart
– the click of central heating in a tiny box overlooking the knees.
Last night I walked the high line, tracking deep rumbling on its old trajectories and found that above the city rises a tunnel of parallel ribs.
Staring at the ceiling of a heart when all along
it was an expanse beyond ourselves we were aspiring to,
bitter grief awash with gratitude at
the pale trajectory of hope we thought punctured the dark
but
can only hold it from caving in.
This city sits in
parentheses
wondering what a start is, and what an end could be.
What (but) unnatural clicks in a long exposed streak of light are we.
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*note: this is the last in a series of six poems written in and about New York.
photos taken by jasmine, and the amazing Rachelle Tai
