SLAM!

Brooklyn, 9/01/2001

Ten days before, we walked the Promenade,
camera lingering on Emma's honeyed,
wind-mussed curls,
toddler cheek pressed against wrought iron curves,
her body a sapling's twist,
supple and young while behind her

stone angels wept plaster down aging brownstones,
high-ceilinged dwellings where giants
must once have lived within vine-tangled brick,
steep steps with carved banisters where
urns squat like ceramic trolls with
lipstick-blossomed begonia hair,
unintentional mimics of the Goths who
wander streets of the Village
just across the river where the

buildings stretch as if trying to escape
the bounds of this cramped landscape
of concrete and steel and smog-dimmed glass.
Air heavy with exhaust and expended breath
like popped thought balloons,
the shatter of jackhammers,
lingering quiver of distant sirens like
an urban song and beside a

wedding party, tipsy laughter and
iridescent lavender shantung, Aron pauses at the railing.
Through the lens I see him in profile,
once-removed as if he occupies a distant land and
beyond him, beyond the modern River Styx, two
towers still stand tall as I release the shutter.


** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only **

If you're going to walk on thin ice, you might as well dance!