The Brooklyn–Battery Bridge in the Brooklyn–Battery Tunnel

You might make a choice between what descends
with these tiles lined before you, or arcing
forward through a history that is constant against us.
A bridge to block out the dawn. Or monoxide
that passes like breath. My breath. I know all about what’s
underground, and I keep my searches for the invisible
there. In the park above, you’ve got your bike locked
and the chain cut. The stubborn part doesn’t say
anything, doesn’t need to to
start marching home, ugly block, block of shouting, block
syrupy with flies. I would like to hear about it, but I am
backed into an argument myself
on a coil of cool fall breeze, backed through
seasons into the past, home or near it, in the moment
when I’m as right as I’ll ever be bled into
I’ll be this right forever. There’s no out available
for this character, just a decade producing the present,
warm, and then warmer around him.
It was as if I hadn’t seen the harbor, didn’t want to
admit it by doing so now. Something
like a pile of books falls over inside me or
the room I’m in breaks off from the house, slides
almost out of view. All things didn’t happen
or did. You might’ve routed a highway so it
crashes through the seventh floor of
a skyscraper, and the moment for that passes by
us still. You can live like a column of light
pours over you, but that’s not all you’ll see.