There's something that comes out of the bricks
in Brooklyn when the sun peeks over the Atlantic
and hits the stone. Something borne in the air
when the motors gun and the guns and sirens quiet
and everyone stares down the same barrel of
go and get it if you want it. There's something
that comes off the fire escapes as they start to bake
and the meters and their readers and
the bulbs above the subway gates. Made. Earned.
There's something in the collar as you start to sweat
another god damned Brooklyn day through.
Something that follows, wherever else you go,
something you can almost taste wherever else sunrise finds you.
