The inky blue of
Early March. Six
O’clock in north
Brooklyn and
I am suddenly

In the distance the
Yellow glow of
Manhattan filters
Through the rooftops
Of our lovely Brooklyn,
Low buildings give
Way to rich night and
A full moon rises
Over Fulton Street.

We are a slip of land
Clinging fast to
Shore, so easy to
Disconnect, float
Quietly out to sea.
So easy, all of us,
Quietly afloat in
Open waters, deep
Atlantic echoing

Would I find you
Amongst the wreckage?
After splitting from this
Heavy motherland
Would you be there
In the orange light of
Dusk, or under the
Silent moon?

No. I am alone
In endless blue;
Empty horizon;
Edge of life;
Nothing before me
But the glow.