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a poem for brooklyn

Oh, Brooklyn, don’t lie to me.

As rain drips from your steel spires,

I make a mess of things: rewrite de Kooning’s

self-portrait

with Imaginary [Sister].

I never promised

American realism.

What is here is what’s always been: Abstract

expression.

On the bridge, in swatches of lavender,

a heart of sky blooms blue with forget-me-nots.

I’ll look up and you’ll no longer be there:

<i> Au revoir, fantôme de la brume! </i>

My voice,

obsidian

after an eruption of all the mountains

of my childhood, sings.


submitted by: dgp

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