East RiverTamiko Beyer
Over and under a thousand times, my body travelling across filigreed bridges named for the boroughs on the banks, through the tunnels kept from flood by the constant sump pumps. From Brooklyn’s shimmy to Manhattan’s rage, from Manhattan’s swan to Brooklyn’s fur, and back and back again. Our bodies at the Brooklyn shore the summer you and I – Whitman’s others ever so many hundred years hence – kissed the rhythm of the tidal strait, the flood tide and ebb tide.
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