They are dismantling, on the other side
of Brooklyn, the Williamsburg Bridge.
After years of crumble, shifts
of workers rush up the erosion
with twenty-four-hour shaking,
shrill cracking, breakdown
assaulting your home one block away.
You’re only in my bed
to get some sleep, aren’t you?
Some respite from metal on metal,
all day rupture, flood lights
at night as the third shift works,
which flood your apartment, too—
no curtains, yellow walls.
You forget your home
in the shell of my sheets
no sound or vibrations
seem to pass through.
In my own bed, you push me
as far away as you can.
Balled in your pod you sleep
as if there is no one
just outside your walls
taking herself apart.
:: Amy Meckler, What All the Sleeping Is For (2002)
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