The
Dublin
strand
is papered
in wind,
my old
book
renewed
into
romance.
I love her.
Pen
scratches
the
whole
page
black,
& variant
sprawls
of my
name
repeat
until I
own a
house.
Sister
& I
in dad's
old car
head
up to
Petworth,
& walk
back
under
a sky
that
rolls
& folds,
a bolt
of cloth.
Break
new trees
on the
prison
island,
handcuffs
of ivy,
jump
the fence
& escape
to the
highway.
In
Georgetown,
lush reeds
wave from
the canal
bottom,
easting
in the
chartreuse.
Then cross
to Dupont,
thronged
with
day-enders
and students
shifting
from
coffee to
*****
as the
hour rises.
Scheherazade
cancels,
but I make
the best
of it,
writing at
the bar
next to
the girl
in leatherette.
The day
ends
with me
fighting
the pharmacy
of my
sleepy
blood
while I
break
the bed
I always
hated
and
throw it
into the
orange.
Day's done.
Another
year to
come.
Thinking
of her -
sleep.