Since that first kiss in the lobby on Boerum Hill, I’ve fallen
in love with Brooklyn, and the risky ledges of subway
platforms, and the way a small letter of light emerges
out of darkness to whisk me away, if I want, to the island
of bankers and foodies. But I prefer the smoked prosciutto,
and the carpaccio, and the branzino at Vini e Olii’s
where François and Catherine kiss both cheeks,
and a whole village of monarchs flickers in my knees.
What comes to us is the pure speed of our hands pressed
through the years, and occasionally, scrambled eggs at midnight,
when I tumble into her full-throated eyes, which do not apologize
for learning to sing as men fell from her skies like popped balloons.