Nothing between us and Brooklyn Bridge seen from our windows—on the other side of Pearl, Dover is Frankfort, along the Bridge towards City Hall—Governors, Staten, Liberty islands, the harbor, violet and gray, a passing barge piled with sand, ebony, the East River, the Heights gold, rain pouring down, massed angles washed by spacious light, air cleared, an amber luster, thick, bristling shore of cranes on platforms, gulls appearing, gleaming white flakes, Manhattan Bridge, farther up the shore, brushed green. Images, afterimages, in aftertime, remembered time, in love's optic, love's characters; in sounds, in shapes and colors, the same things thought, the thing said is said in words refracted, pressed in the mind, among them, now, my peers, vicious and cyanotic, in the inmost wheels of the machinery of state, in the invisible axle of the state, radar-jamming F-4G Wild Weasel missiles, bursts of fire, magenta-tinged halos circling Baghdad, Operation Desert Storm. In remembered time, the moon is red, and patches of red cloud; a finger drawn around the rim of a cognac snifter; at the sight of a child with enormous protuberant eyes squeezing handkerchiefs in both fists, my own anger vanished. Along these lines, the trouble I'm having comprehending the schizophrenic prisoner on death row must be forced to take antipsychotic medication to make him sane enough to execute, the drugs, according to the prosecution, beneficial to him, his eligibility for execution the only unwanted consequence. And, again, that self that lay hidden, who speaks in a whisper; and ongoing revelations in series of circles. Or, say, Water Street, South Street Seaport, seated outdoors, late June, early evening, strips of bright silver-pink clouds, trio of bass, keys, drums; or, let's say, Water Street, Bridge Café, that February gray winter day, table in the back, near the window, up along Dover the Bridge. Copyright © 2017 Lawrence Joseph. Used with permission of the author. |
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