Here on the Atlantic coast, lip of the deep cup drunk in migrant faith,
I am on the cusp of seeing Truth:
The postulant’s scopic skyline embossed upon the blue,
like layered shadows cast by fresh eyes’ bright dream of it,
city-solid, life-alight,
but the ocean bedevils unsteady heels.
I feel the border’s weight from this changing place,
and follow history’s dark reverse, away.
Against the concrete inner curve of dock the water
beats a muddy waste:
chopped froth upon the rough wall.
Up rise brown peaks, and peaks
of damp remains, debris, expelling
the hushed filth of waves.
The Hudson paints its image on the city’s porous coast,
delivering banished revenants, drowned ghosts.
I am on the cusp of seeing Truth:
The postulant’s scopic skyline embossed upon the blue,
like layered shadows cast by fresh eyes’ bright dream of it,
city-solid, life-alight,
but the ocean bedevils unsteady heels.
I feel the border’s weight from this changing place,
and follow history’s dark reverse, away.
Against the concrete inner curve of dock the water
beats a muddy waste:
chopped froth upon the rough wall.
Up rise brown peaks, and peaks
of damp remains, debris, expelling
the hushed filth of waves.
The Hudson paints its image on the city’s porous coast,
delivering banished revenants, drowned ghosts.
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