My mother told me the Brooklyn I am chasing is gone.
Since you asked I couldn’t point you in the right direction
(what had been a green awning as a child may now be crumbled and discarded along with)
the shul no one visits anymore.
But the star is still visible at what was then made a church.
I ran in that basement, I heard the mourning Hebrew, the shuffling of orthodox swaying.
What can you do with memories except tell the stories over and over and over until the people alive can’t recognize the dead and the stories stand upright alone in the corner watching you sleep.