(no subject)
Bloomfield Bridge
Escape from your apartment the tribal drumming, my heart,
or my feet running down the stairs
toward the Bloomfield Bridge from where
the city lifts toward the clouds
and houses can be spotted crawling desperately
onto each other's backs,
stacks and smokestacks of houses and chimneys
and windows and rooftops.
I see the sky and I understand the houses' piling.
We would drum blood into each other's breastbones
but you are already asleep, so I feel weight
when I pull the sheet over me. Somewhere
in your stomach there is a god of light,
he is something like the sky as I beat breaths
into the railings, the lifting of clouds
from your abdomen, your throat,
out your opening eyes, the rays of sun.
-Brenda Battad