Kissena Park, New York City
The hands that molded empires
have all withered to fragments.
Sprigs of fingers strewn over concrete.
Each day, the green of this park recedes
into itself. The stone of the city spilling in
a slow flood of gray to claim
these acres carved from Eden.
What will the body do, what will it become
when the notes of bird songs fall
like pebbles, and we are all a little colder
when we are statues
and can no longer turn our necks
to see that granite smile
so close to our cheeks?
words: Ocean Vuong (blog & vietnamlit.org)
image: Steve Wing & Dorothee Lang
more life questions: Past 22:00 (#2)