the hour of black water have passed
the young possum delivered its message
there’s an echo of gunfire that goes unanswered: this,
what passes for serenity on the 2nd Street Bridge
a brief respite from traffic and all its ambitions
I count Greyhound busses on I-65
listen for the distant sound of train whistles
the water under the wharf knocks hollow beneath my work boots
.
Tag Archives: wharf
before the dew
the nights are getting warmer
and that kiss of 2am dew
will feel less sloppy less frenetic
less like that fumbling teenage lip lock
in the church basement
the river is calm for now
yet the ducks still explore the wharf
dry as it is, expecting to swim
there are no girls with auburn hair
here to sing me into the water
and into the imagining
that I am not a duck
searching midnight basements
for the first hint of dew
3AM empty wharf
under the moon
waning, tucked in clouds
moving slow: currents