APRIL 15TH

The bells of PS 41 fire
Like a jewelry store
Break-in as you turn
Left on Stanton, spying
A mottled concrete wall
Where you can sit, sun
Warming your ears
Which protrude ever so
Slightly from headphones
The Transfiguration
Building with horns
Over guitar, the voices
Singing “lost in a cloud”
As a xylophone tinkles
Broken glass in green
Brown & white arranges
Itself against pavement
Where a woman’s shoes
Clomp, returning laden
With groceries, the Gray
Line tourists whiz past
I am now a member
Of the Brooklyn Botanical
Gardens, having signed up
Yesterday on my way
To the Basquiat show
Which was fucking
Incredible, incredibly
Alive and sad all
At once & afterwards
When I lay down
Among the cherry trees
Of the esplanade, a young
Mother came over to rub
Suntan lotion on my neck
And I felt so full
Of something like love