above its piers, three tiers of traffic
tear through brooklyn heights
where elevated eyes stretch towards
manhattan's wounded skyline.
it stares back defiant.
beneath the sunstruck promenade
the rush of trucks and cars
- a driven drone of restless lives,
all engine noise and toxic fumes -
is an exhausting sea of calm,
an infinite endless murmur.
across the water,
vertical ghosts shimmer blue and white.
impossible, then, to now not think
of tumbling towers
crumbling to dust,
rising and reaching
and clouding this picturesque platform
with dark grey smoke and distant sirens
and the putrid stench of burning flesh
and apocalypse death.
so take my hand, my love, and let us sit
and wait and wait and wait
and watch the world burn down.