Jacob Riis Beach
Behind the decrepit hospital,
next to the jetty, you paced the shore
with your camera. Red gym shorts and Nike
slides, your dark hair in a low bun.
It was your job to document the beach
before its demolition, and once, in a fit of mania,
we drove out in total dark at 4 am—
you sped past the stone church
on Flatbush, talking with your hands.
The sun rose as we stepped off the boardwalk.
We slept on blankets you kept in your car.
When we woke again, distance swimmers
were arriving by bicycle. Now, at night,
far from the city, I picture the contours
of your face until they become like any other
woman’s. I make myself imagine a deserted
room where people like you and I could meet.
Damp brick walls, cracked windows.
Then I remember its absence. In the end,
there is only exposure: the wind-blown recess
where a building stood.
