“Beauty will save the world.”
Prince Myshkin to Rogozhin, The Idiot
Prince Myshkin to Rogozhin, The Idiot
The way the wheels of the six train
caress the belly of the Brooklyn Bridge is a love poem.
These egg custard tarts we bought — also a love poem,
sugar sonnet, we laugh, tearing apart soft, circular pastry
into perfect, jiggling halves, and in that moment I know
that we could share the moon, cup its light in our heavenward hands
and drink endlessly. We carry the echo of moonlight
in the briefcases that we hold steadfast to our beating hearts.
This is a city where each soul speaks
the language of leaving, of subway social distance,
bodega ghosts and white collar nomads.
This is a city where kisses condense on train car windows
before the wind whips them away.
Here, in this city, I forget where my hands have been
when they are holding yours.
Above us, the planets align
like an orchestra before the overture.
