On my Roof (Second Night in Bushwick)

It’s a rolling night here. Exhaust fans ablaze flowing streams of black cloth into the sea of the sky. The big dipper, unbelievably apparent for a city night despite its immensity, pours columns of molasses. Thick jet trails across its canvas. I can see the fingerprints of the gods, like they were molding pie crusts to flow breezes of fresh baked goodness into the world. Smiles that grow to lengths boundless, bound only by closed spirits. How could you not smile at this?! At the el’s rhythmic clattering across its spinal journey through the borough. I’m sure there are smiles peering behind its plexiglass into the creamy blue blanket above. Even the moon’s blinding half smile I feel on these shoulders. And the twinkling planes flying flowing breathing glorious fumes of filth and beauty miles and miles above within fingertip reach stretching limbs aglow with want of bird flight and flee. How easily they jump and sail even the gentlest of winds. Here to there without thought. Prickling wires rolled across these fences engulfing me- none in, none out. There goes the train, and here I sit. Physically. For those wires can’t trap what they can’t touch. Try as you must, never will your cages collide upon my beat.