Alas, Boston wasn’t my property.
I sent her a dream by post
or was it her to me.
Blinded in that river’s tarry pitch,
fleeing swans left me as a painted spectre
with aching sight of empty miles or inches.
We met at the bridge at the bend.
Bergs traipsed below,
hours cracked and
shimmering foreign despairs bounced and jolted
across the ice.
Cold fiddles, empty lit coffee shops,
Bawdy night revues in triple deckers
were brack at my bow.
Poetic games trod green lawns without me.
Someone else’s universe looked me in my scared mouth.
Celluloid and ceramic
Bullets ran through me.
Yes I said something
down that river Charles.
I never knew what
and you won’t tell me.
Broken brides built queer weirs,
strained the gallon substance of time.
I was only two acts of two shows.
From satin beds I dug purpled shells
with years of ugly stories I thought would wed me.
You and I drifted from that spilt mouth without a word
or another masked song from cigarette’s kiss.
A glance and a slip of the hand melted out into the ocean oblivion.
A dream that never even happened.