Park Slope(s) for E.H.

Your hand shores your hairline. Heat and sweat rising in light. A mist I never knew a human could posses, but your steam settles on a higher plane, quietly disappearing. Brooklyn hands swing like silver pendulums. Back and forth bulldozing sewer smells and city-approved paths. My hand is empty, lifting toward yours with magnetic force. But I love this city more. I love myself enough, I won’t wade in the dirty water trickling between your tracks. I take my hand back, cradle a Negra Modelo, peeling the gold from the neck as an offering to each unlit window.

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