The good things
are small
when you can get them.
A wishbone fossilized in asphalt.

You can fly down the dark
hall of the Williamsburg bridge
on your bike
at night
very late at night
and feel like a blood cell
racing out of a vein

The red-checked shadow-flecked
moan of ghosts above your head.
The buzz of the road behind you.

The yellow construction lights
in the skeleton of a new condo
all lit at once
hardened webs of honey
thick spit in a hundred throats

You get these things
on the brink of exhaustion.
Perhaps it is exhaustion
that gets you them,
tunes your sense to something,
anything anything anything
good.

gagging
the sound of a chop
faint and ridiculous singing

The good things
when you get them
are usually at night.
Night which makes everything
smaller
and small things seem silent
and in the midst of so much bigness,
bits of silence are
good to get.

Night.
Late.
Nobody's watching the moon anymore.
That's how late it is.
You wonder how
a street
with so many windows and doors
can lie so silent.

The good things gotten at night
picked to be personal
a shattered, hammered, sparkling star
among a million others
that would not exist without you.