Chelsea Piers



My lover and I stroll down the piers,

post pescetarian dinner, in midsummer.

He points to the moon, veiled by clouds.

The Hudson River murmurs soft waves.

Across, the buildings glitter like theater.

Our arms damp, lamps lend themselves

to fantasy of the last two men on earth.

But as I reach for his hand, he pulls it

away, looks hurriedly around. Suddenly

I stand awash in brutal history, periphery

of sanctuary and jeopardy. We are those

punished for our affections. The silent

seagulls disguised as larks. His denial

plunges silver-finned into the river.