Sandy hook


shadows stretch from

buildings’ edges as

tattered billows of laundry

dance on lines that tense

in winter

between long night

and brevity of day:

if we stay too long

our world gets small.


we leave Brooklyn in one

marvelous motion of motor,

a habit of highway

leading to jersey beaches

where only the city’s slow and buoyant trash

reaches past

 the super-speeds of decibels,

flickering borders of ozone,

washing ashore quietly, here:

broken beer bottle bottom,

tampon applicator,

denture set,

and the gurgling foam of ocean's edge.


And all along the way,

you were a fool flinging

gold-gilded knots of laughter

from the car window, provoking

multitudes of universes,

explaining, nonetheless,

your fear of nothingness.


And now, looking out toward distant city,

where the ocean curves like a whale's rib from 

your back, in silhouette against the shore;

stars like shining pinpricks on your pupils.

I know by the reflection there that

you hold whole universes, precious,

on the films of your eyes and

hardly dare to realize.