Under the manhattan bridge
there lives a girl.
No one ever sees her
as she crawls on the underside
the unsteady sweep of car tires
her metronome as she sings
but
sometimes
if you look down in the crack,
right where the water becomes
the park on the bank
right before the highway with its whizzing engines
(pumping pumping pumping
turning turning turning)
you will see her sea glass
eyes peering up at you
and they will grasp you
lock you
so that
when your Q train
pushes forward
you will let out a gasp
and wonder what has
given you
such silly
ideas
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