by Matthew Ulland
In the heart of Chelsea
stained glass listens,
whispers the syntax
of promise and loss.
+
The body of Angel Melendez
washes ashore while the Hudson
sleeps, folds liquid wings
around the hull of the Staten Island Ferry.
+
If you stare at glass
it turns to water.
If you stare at water
it turns to bleach.
+
The man with one eye
closed, tries to mouth
the words, sounds
like vinyl ripping.
+
My eyelids grow heavy
under defunct subway tokens—
heavy for passage. Neon
shimmers and spreads.
+
Angel Melendez rises toward me—
offers a quilt of pigeon wings
warm as a hit of ecstasy
on the nightclub floor.
He wants to take me there.
Like a brother, he wants to show me.
