Bear Mountain/China Pier

The air was so fine and thin
up on Bear Mountain
I felt I could just walk off into the sky.
The day was so clear and cool
the breeze flowed like a stream
and the moss on the flat rocks
lay like a carpet
beneath my feet.

The stratocasters silky plumes
waved like Arabian fans
over a dozing baby
asleep in a hammock.
I brushed the dry lichen
from my hair
when I got up from the lawn
and climbed up
flights of concrete stairs
to the top of the overlook tower.
A map lay blooming
seventy five miles in all directions
I twirled
and became dizzy.
I have no right to want more from life
Today was a definition.
_______________________________

On the other hand

The China Pier rots.
Thick, lime water licks at the piles
bits of steel--integral bits
snagging the whole
clutching at the whole--
disintegrate.
The waving mass
undulates in the Hudson
like a jellified dead animal
it’s soul
anticipating burrial.

The China Pier cringes
in the white background sound
of the onslaught of the twentieth century.
It waits in a manicured frame
of lawn and brick
and wrought iron
beneath the power
of Indian Point--
Hogging up the sun
the huge utility lays a shaddow
over the water
flowing under China Pier.