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)


BluePrintReview - issue 21 - shortcuts / detours