Boston

The trees skid in reverse
When it’s dark, when it’s cold—
Every face, every syllable the same;

Snow, cinnamon in my cocoa,
This communion of souls:
I want it, with its lights and pea coats.

Perhaps this is the boredom they really talk about,
When the marrow penetrates you—
I want to make holes in my skin,
Peaceful and bewildered

I can read his code.
I hope all those songs hurt,
My always refrain,
That steady silence of hours, eternal.

My eyes burned the sky
Blue velvet violet viridian vibrant,
Taking up my morning in sheets.

Why am I here, where am I going?

I really seem to like it fresher,
That slick cool slide of squish,
Of nothing, and everything is right;
The wind still soars like needles.

2/17/09