The boats, waves and bully winds push it,
They push the water with all that junk
Like dead fish and cigarette butts
And shredded plastic bags, to South America.
All the way down to the sun away from the cold.
The pier holds all the people who ran away from chaos
On its woody planks:
Black grey and tan.
From a far distance where the sun is headed,
A giant statue touches the clouds
The statue becomes taller than mountains from here.
A bridge that is not the Brooklyn flies
Or floats, or, held, as it were, over the bitter cold, congested water.
How good it is to leave.
Watch planes like birds,
Helicopters like beetles and the river like a long ferocious tail.
For the moment the wind pauses and the muffled voices that were being carried
Southward with the water, stop,
The languages
Hang in a mobile between one island and another.
I would rather be with no one.
Happy here on splintery planks with strangers who make solitude tangible.
German boys are wrestling.
They tackle one another in fur coats and sneakers.
They may kiss in a burst of excitement
while the grey fur pinches the red.
It always gets to be too much when you’re fighting.
A few speak French, a few speak Chinese, and those pretty Germans run away.
The Chinese family smiles and poses in front of a camera
“make picture with a view” the father says.
They hold each other’s shoulders and smile
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