The Brooklyn–Battery Bridge in the Brooklyn–Battery Tunnel

You might make a choice between what descends with these tiles lined before you, or arcing forward through a history that is constant against us. A bridge to block out the dawn. Or monoxide that passes like breath. My breath. I know all about what’s underground, and I keep my searches for the invisible there. In the park above, you’ve got your bike locked and the chain cut. The stubborn part doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to to start marching home, ugly block, block of shouting, block syrupy with flies. I would like to hear about it, but I am backed into an argument myself on a coil of cool fall breeze, backed through seasons into the past, home or near it, in the moment when I’m as right as I’ll ever be bled into I’ll be this right forever. There’s no out available for this character, just a decade producing the present, warm, and then warmer around him. It was as if I hadn’t seen the harbor, didn’t want to admit it by doing so now. Something like a pile of books falls over inside me or the room I’m in breaks off from the house, slides almost out of view. All things didn’t happen or did. You might’ve routed a highway so it crashes through the seventh floor of a skyscraper, and the moment for that passes by us still. You can live like a column of light pours over you, but that’s not all you’ll see.