September 17, 2007


I walk these concrete footpaths
like a homesick tourist,
picking out street names
that remind me of you.

I walk a mile each night
only to hear Manhattan's breezes
trickle through an imported meadow
because it sounds almost
like the whisper of your hills.

I walk the vanishing streets,
searching for a harbour -
a laden vessel, masterless -
a violin, unstrung.


The room worked itself up
into a churn of joy and agitation,
smelling of spilt beer
and soaking earth.
The electric lights slid
across sweating collarbones

and curved around a
flesh-warm, rain-soft sound.
It shiverdanced
like a lost ribbon tangled
in tall cordgrass
or dandelions unraveling in a wind,

then rolled away like hills
behind a train window, or
sentimental tears.