The city, a cathedral of glass and sighs, Sags under its own memory— Each cobblestone a stanza, each spire a question mark. We trace the scars of its birth: Did the canoe kiss the hull? Did the Dutch flag fray in the storm? The answer is rust in the throat, A lullaby choked on salt and sovereignty.
Your eyes, twin lighthouses, flicker with forgotten codes— The kind they etch above crumbling New Amsterdam, Where the sapokanikan whispers still cling to the air, A hymn to the earth, a requiem for the harbor’s first breath. joanna jet me and you 691
We are the ghosts of the harbor, you see, Swallowed by the weight of 691 years, Our bones laced with brine and ballads of the damned. The oystercatchers croon, “You and I, you and I,” A refrain older than your name, older than my need To name the stars as they drown in your hair. The city, a cathedral of glass and sighs,