A Transit Poem
At a Hoboken quay, listening to the echo
Of foghorns and the slap of waves against
The piers, the heart grows silent.
And the quick hours in that north I spent thawing my frozen mouth Against your body of stars, arches, Downy paths, secret mazes,
Begin to loom before my eyes Like these Manhattan towers Wreathed in wispy oceanic mists.
Note: One great advantage (apart from the low state taxes) of living across the Husdon from New York City are these very lovely views one is granted of this locus, this hive of human life.
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Lines For Stones
[1]
White stone, black stone:
you clear heart the former,
my distended one the latter.
You now carry both in your
hands of alabaster, lamplight,
night mischief, ghost piano
arpeggios on cafe tables.
[2] There is self possession in how you now possess me: After warming my hands on your belly (if cowries were currency again, I would be instantly rich), I walk out into the sea of people, glinting with silvers of mica.
[3] You ask, without hesitancy, "Buy me these", pointing to a a cheap pair of gypsy earrings. I do, and then you say, "help me put them on", and I thread wire into the petals of your ears.
[4] Love is what compresses time: those days and nights have hardened into rock, layer over memory's layer which I tunnel into to discover these raw beginnings of song.
Note: A two year old poem on stones, written when I didn't have someone to give stones to.
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After Your Departure
Elevator mirrors and subway panes still
contain the glassy tinkle of your laughter.
But missing your petite pianist hands, I twist
in my palms, this slightest whimper of words.
Note: Written somewhere between Kipling Station and St. George Station of the Toronto Subway, while reading, half-heartedly (the other half then being on a jet-plane) Michael Ondaatje's latest novel "Divisadero"; yes, I bought it, and yes it is good.
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