Isaac Leib

Your city ends, means beyond new
cities, ignorant of peaceable ways.

New city, an easy stepping traverse
of identities, transmission:

permeable as laid fish

into concrete, speckle of blood, trickle
of electric web, first meditations,

fatiguing, sleep resurfacing.

The entangling village; evident, unstoried,
open legged as the upcoming stride.

What of the old town? What of the order
unbending, the anarchic forecasts

flailing for participatory cogency? And
what of the nightbirds’ soliloquies,

tonight, at Peretz Square?

My Child

My child learned
pronounced
1) in a word

My child upheld
flounced
2) in a word

My child forged
heaved
3) in a word

My child renamed
believed
4) in a word

The FDR Drive

The Montgomery Street mouths

forced East
lapping waterfront

Brooklyn over smokestacks
as cartoon cartographies

centuries after musket balls
running bases

decades before Muscovite
life idolatries dancing mazurkas

in fetid
pickle vats of Gemara

inflicted gray
ratio machines

aimed down amid a crisp fall
humility at the Days of Awe