the good news is
after a morning spent muzzling
tears in the sloping kitchenette
face to the red brick
i still want
to take the ferry
all the way to lower manhattan
and stumble upon the sublime
grey mise-en-scene
x-marks-the-spot
this-must-be-the-place
of our first days,
say hello to the origin story:
84 williams street
and the stairwell there
the oldest park in town,
the pub that almost burned down
seven years ago but didn’t quite give up
the ghost
the seaport
and the memorial for irish hunger,
the bench on the battery
where you kissed me for the first time at sunrise.
i want to hop the fences
to our holy sites
just like we did in the dark morning hours
right after i got off the plane and dropped my bags
in my new town, in my new home
just after i extended my hand in the stairwell
and said my name out loud
and then heard yours for the first time.
i still want
to arrive there with the blackest pen
and write on every mooring,
on the cold statuary,
on the third step from the bottom
small but permanent
“i fell in love here”.
