Over and Under

So sexy to slide under- neath a river, to sit inside this snakelike sub- marine-like subway car and freely imagine the world above— the Brooklyn Bridge invisibly trembling with the weight of its own beauty, the East River still guided by the grooves Walt Whitman's eyes wore in it, the bulldog tug- boats pushing the passively impressive broad-bottomed barges around, and the double- decker orange and black Staten Island ferries, with their aura of overworked pack-mule mournfulness, and beyond them the Atlantic Ocean which I lately learned was brought here by ice comets three billion years ago, which explains a few things, like why everybody feels so alienated, and of course the thoughts being thought by every person in New York City at this moment— vast schools of undulating fish curving and rising in the cloud-swirling wind-waved sky, surrounded by the vaster emptiness of non-thought which holds them and which they try not to think about and you lying in bed in your sixth-floor walk-up sublet on St. Mark's Place— such a breath- taking ascension! imagining me rising now to meet you.