Chelsea Piers

My lover and I stroll down the piers,
post pescetarian dinner, in midsummer.
He points to the moon, veiled by clouds.
The Hudson River murmurs soft waves.
Across, the buildings glitter like theater.
Our arms damp, lamps lend themselves
to fantasy of the last two men on earth.
But as I reach for his hand, he pulls it
away, looks hurriedly around. Suddenly
I stand awash in brutal history, periphery
of sanctuary and danger. We are those
punished for our affections. The silent
seagulls disguised as larks. His denial

plunges silver-finned into the river.