out by the lighthouse 
on the tip of roosevelt island


i see a crab claw on the ground
its colors were shell cream, a deep red,
a browny green and a verbal blue.

gulls wing by
or sit on the concrete barrier watching
ruffled by the wind.

it’s cold enough on the east river
i’ve pulled up both my hoods
to protect my ears.
i have to carry my hat
if it weren't for the feather
i could crush my hat up in my bag

right across from here
(is manhattan)
there is a park on the upper east side.
below it is the doubledecker east side highway.

boats that power through this confluence
dwarf doubbledecker highways
and any building i’ve ever called home.

a tanker,
scratched, scarred, rusted, discolored,
moves faster than you’d think
a building could
withtout falling down.

the water here
at the top of the island
is a chaotic flow
that does terrifying things.











why i am
a nomad: