I wake up in a Bushwick loft on Tisha B’Av the safe looks at me with its one notched and numbered eye winking: remember the lifetimes before you, child.
Factory, storehouse, temple.
I wake up in Brooklyn mourning for the wealth that was waking up in quiet Jerusalem.
To stop eating and drinking is to grow unmoored not sure if the sun is more idea or light.
Outside, against the fence a street shrine has sprouted, a tree of candles and photos, “descansa en paz Jose mi caramelo.”
Today we are all lighting candles mourning something.