2/22

. Under this expressway, I feel as if those iron hooves of trucks gone by that shake and make the entire iron and cement slabs bounce, they make their music for me.
The sun crushes into my eye obliquely. What a giant the Manhattan Bridge--the brownstone Brooklyn Bridge farther in the distance--that sleeps, its torso from this side across to that, as ants and centipedes scurry across its convenient belly. I think that was the V train rumbling across.
. How many times I've sat, come to the edge of the world. Here, the whiffs of Chinatown blow past me out into the sea. The East River. The Atlantic Ocean.
My forehead is bare and is warm. The sun gives life to everything. And when it is not there, everything is lifeless and dreary. Those seagulls gather energy to dart in front of all this with the same sun. That's why they fly. The few living things that thrive on dark cold is cockroaches.
. Civilization. An antpile. Photography, technology, steel. A collective memory.