crying on the sympathetic shoulders of nameless statues,
leaning on the arms of the old subway cars,
letting them lead me over fathomless bridges and buildings below—
my brooklyn, my plastic castle in the sky,
its dirty palms reflecting some false shimmering
like the blue sky turning red at sundown,
like our blue blood turning red at sunset.
where are we, if not home?
home — a vision of the mind in glory,
where we dream our first dreams,
not the border-lines in which we do so;
not the plastic fingers, but the upturned palms.
not our plastic fingers but our upturned palms.