A black cloud composed of cutouts of MosesOn the beam, Moses laughing, holding letter. We saw him first on a cool June evening,While we entered the bathhouse, twenty-Two hundred, and dipped our feet in basins ofDisinfectant so that the sky above the pavilionsChlorinated with silver reflection. Or I was thereAlmost alone, barely fit in my body and readyTo turn, to clarify as I descended, found I was able toDescend. Things are overhead. ChorusesOf things turn around me. I am in a pool.Robert Moses swims with me, and I with him.I say, “Oh, let the decades filter outward!”And he says, “Let them file down the streets.”…
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The New Yorker (Digital) - 1 Issue, Oct-06-14