Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Haunt Me

And from Virginia Ave.
(as far as Chelsea)
you want to be deaf
because as long
as your ears open
you might hear
in the shifting
of the dunes,
in the swaying
bayside marshes,
her melancholy
murmurings in Spring.
Even in Brigantine
the tsunami
of her voice
darkens the beach.
All stock in any love
still funds obsession.
So, with piles
of gray ash
you’ll draw the petunias
and all those fragrances,
which aren't your cologne.
Greenhead flies
bite exclamation points
into your ankles.
And in Ventnor
Mini cars are parked,
and the lights caution
that lips the color
of ripe cayenne
stain forever.
Your lips part
so ribbons of wind
can tongue their thin edges.
fold their wings
and caw mono-eyed,
you can't miss
their beaks of asphalt
and feathers of chalk,
claws of dusk and gloaming.
But here your myths
have no merge.

And your hands
are sweet with sweat,
unlike your boots
which are dotted
by questions.
Why is her voice
full of moons
whose shimmer
never quarters,
never wanes?

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)
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