Sand-crusted catacombs of dismembered dreams
Settle beside memories of the child who grew up
In rocky Harpswell, Maine. Not many beaches,
Only a foggy stretch beyond Morse Mountain --
But I used to stand ankle-deep
In the water, wait until my toes sank
Into crystalized Earth
And bubbles from Littleneck clams.
I’d stand there until goosebumps spread upon
My blanched legs, rising up, up, like the artificial hills
Of Maya Lin’s Storm King Wavefield.
Now, when I lie alone,
Misplaced inside a vacant Manhattan studio,
I surrender to sirens and accelerated lives.
Peace comes in painting – thick oil,
Violet and claret on stretched canvas,
Depictions of neon signs and cityscapes,
Cheap t-shirt stands on street corners,
And 24-hour coffee shops with “specialty”
Blends in little white travel mugs – selling
To flocks of strangers, strutting like pigeons on cement
Sidewalks, pretending they belong.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
Sand-crusted catacombs of dismembered dreams
Settle beside memories of the child who grew up
In rocky Harpswell, Maine. Not many beaches,
Only a foggy stretch beyond Morse Mountain --
But I used to stand ankle-deep
In the water, wait until my toes sank
Into crystalized Earth
And bubbles from Littleneck clams.
I’d stand there until goosebumps spread upon
My blanched legs, rising up, up, like the artificial hills
Of Maya Lin’s Storm King Wavefield.
Now, when I lie alone,
Misplaced inside a vacant Manhattan studio,
I surrender to sirens and accelerated lives.
Peace comes in painting – thick oil,
Violet and claret on stretched canvas,
Depictions of neon signs and cityscapes,
Cheap t-shirt stands on street corners,
And 24-hour coffee shops with “specialty”
Blends in little white travel mugs – selling
To flocks of strangers, strutting like pigeons on cement
Sidewalks, pretending they belong.
