Brooklyn 5am

I love songs that move your imagination to different places. This poem wound its way out of an image that travels through my imagination from time to time. I was listening to Bon Iver's 'Skinny Love' the other day, and it sort of just arrived at my finger tips.

Brooklyn 5am

The Brooklyn streets are cold this morning

But the worst of winter has passed now

I miss you I miss the sun I miss home

But this morning Brooklyn is beautiful

The trees are starting to slowly turn green now

They’ve been bare for months

Tiny green garments have started to gather on their branches

And the snow blankets have melted

They turn into thousands of tiny lakes plaguing the city paths.

I miss you, but today Brooklyn is beautiful

I would have stayed but I need the chill

My blood hates to be too warm

And the sun used to burn my skin

But I was made to be here

My blood is like silk in my veins and roses on my cheeks

Fingers have begun to thaw

We only wear our gloves in the morning and at night.

The days have started to gain color again

I saw a painting you would like the other day

It was black and white, just like you

I see you in the windows sometimes

I walk past some of them twice to catch you

I saw you behind a tree in the park as well

But when I got there you were a bum

Brooklyn is beautiful this morning

I still miss you some days. Like today

The city only reminds me of you in the things you would hate

Yesterday I smashed the crystal glass you gave me

It rained and I bled

I stood on the sidewalk under my apartment

And let the silk dirty the pavement

It isn’t clean here I like that

It’s wet and Brooklyn is beautiful this morning.

There’s a banjo playing in the coffee shop below

You would hate that

I go to the shop every morning for coffee, it’s terrible but I like it

I like the morning hours, before the sun and after it

I stand on the pale streets at four

I watch the city heave its breath, I watch the sweepers

Brooklyn is beautiful now, before the world wakes up

Shopkeepers receive boxes from trucks

The windows are lit and soon the people will come

Soon there will be faces in the windows and feet on paths

There will be hands waving for yellow cabs

It isn’t home, but Brooklyn is beautiful this morning