Outside the Walt Whitman Residences.
This will undoubtedly be the quickest
elegy you’ve ever received, Whitman—
I’m outside of your residences and
I’m scared shitless, a quick walking witness
—a whiteness projected—a meek pilgrim
cowering under the height of stories
stacked too high to count, each teeming with
life and its antecedent miseries.
A loping overpass which connects to Hart Crane’s
tragic crumble and Roebling’s final triumph
is the tourniquet that ties off the slums,
a concrete elastic for stagnating
motion and motive—the bounding line
which separates the poet from his poem.