The giant’s bricked-over heart
and her bricked-over hands
hold flowers falling pastel colors.
Her gaze follows the petals.
I pass unnoticed beside her elbow
as a man wearing black
—hair slick, aviators hanging
single-limbed from his shirt collar—
pivots, sharply, urgently,
presses his notebook against her
passionately and draws a pen
from his breast pocket. His ruled page
is a black-ink cursive web.
Fiercely, he scrawls addenda.
At the top of the page, a salutation
hung in earnest loops and curls:
“To My One True Love”
The giant sighs in gusts
heaved from the East River.
She cracks, in fingers of sunburnt mortar,
mortal, as time steals away paint,
and the prick of the pen
stings with the directionality of love.
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