ABOUT THE WATERFRONT
Dozing off into fried dreams,
dusks frittered
to bonne nuit, to Skeltonic
rhododendrons within
and without the
telemorphokinesis,
Boston's vegetal forceps in bloom,
quagmires
of dactyloscopic rooks
on wires of air,
the tough tinsel nut
modernity
hung thriving
on the thread of
a generation. How much more
scintillantly splenetic
could the ragamuffins
of electronics become? Where
to cast or not to cast
downtown ellipses of joyhood
to trucks of passersby
behind the public gardens
in lanes of largesse
and others of fireproof
spring, strongbox
efflorescence,
securities jacked up,
life going hand in hand
with economics?
The sky coat is spread
wetly over the scrapers.
In the earth
ballistic bulbs burgeon.
The spade bank
is full of spades.
Piers are pincers.
They are paroles.
They are
sunk to their barrels,
filled with seagull-squashed
linen sleep and aquatic
projections into
the cobalt blotting sun.
(1999)
|