River Styx

I sit and see across from me a man a girl a boy all black in descending order of size if you were reading them in Hebrew this family.
Boy little wonder has opened eyes ears a head in a whirl for the world without words. Mama tells him to stop spinning on the pole the train is not a park. He continues to her dismay barely hearing let alone listening to what she says never anything but his own voice in will; a boy’s, yes, only just a boy’s voice.
In the evening blue grey amid the two-d charcoal silhouettes of the Battery skyline bejewelled this twilight the Brooklyn Bridge.In the ten thousand thousand ripples of the East River estuary waters
flowing mutely out to sea, the Brooklyn Bridge oscillating, phantoming, shimmering reverberantly in a rush of tidal waters below at low tide. 

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