The city voices a rising descant to this
our magnum opus, our climax
of awareness of sense and space,
each other and what we desire
finally offered up, exposed on the concrete
floor above so many ceilings, so many
secrets like the ones we carried all along
to sacrifice tonight, these secrets
we do not revere enough to whisper,
crying them instead in a single twisting line
wrenched in turns from two throats,
a treacherous soundtrack to our words:
mea culpa, mea culpa, I should have known better.

“I’m not talking about love on a Brooklyn rooftop.”
– Anon.