The thud in the forehead.

The long black gap from the runway
to the city where the tops of the Empire

State Building and Chrysler burn like trees,
tall trees, small

controlled burns,
markers of loss, of constancy,

like friends, old friends.

How does it happen?
They stay. I go

over the brooches of East Coast cities
nestled in sweaters, earth, night,
water shaping everything

with its merciless curves.