Sometimes I think these islands float and the rivers stand still
And we were foolish to build bridges that bind them.
But they glide perfectly parallel, never growing too far apart
Or crashing together and losing themselves.
They could not cut the water as well that way.
With their space and their synchronized bob and flow
They push upriver cutting between the mountains we call waves
Perfectly, so the parted passages curl around their edges
Like silk curling around a body in the wind,
Never splashing and chipping at the core.
When the fog hangs heavy, I expect them to lose sight of one another,
To veer off course and crash into the mainland – Jersey or the Bronx
But these two islands are ships at sea, forever independent,
Floating unanchored, paired with eachother not because of the bridges that bind them
But because of brilliant flashes, cutting through the fog.
The light cuts back and forth, unclear but blinding,
Explaining nothing but expressing everything
Offering just enough glint, just enough hope
To keep ideas unarticulated bouncing back and forth
To keep both bodies afloat, and pegged on one another.