as we circle the John Fitzgerald Kennedy Memorial Airport for reasons dark to me: once, twice, thrice.
Some of these networks congeal as streets, others coagulate into towns.
Bad neighborhoods, court districts, voting precincts are impossible to identify, looking down.
Twinklings hint of other systems, here arrayed in time: redlight, greenlight, traffic surges,
store hours, schedules, seasons, ways of moving, the clear as day but invisible causes of hidden wants, urges.
What I've come here for is the homes, those shells we each sculpt around our own life
to shut out the cold and to protect against the bone-grey trees, stunted balconies, satellites, sights
which root above, wrought iron and water tower, in sky-plots long ago
staked out for nobler purpose by our hearts.
