moving straight into the past
pushing through the allen street ghosts
each street tossing my collective
dna consciousness
delancey
grand
canal
reverbrate
with the ship’s horns
and bells off the east river
pushcarts rattle around my bus
mournful yiddish cries
with old women in kerchiefs
about ice
and vegetables and shmuel
is in trouble at home again
and the smell of veal parm from the west and the chinese ducks hanging
irish brogues
rogues and cops eyeing
each other across the asphalt field
that sumbitch has good ale
and its down to sloppy louies for the fish fried or broiled
beat beards too with indecipherable
visions also mumbling into their papers
the atomic bomb blows time
returns forward
and so does my mind

#70. There’s Something

November 3, 2009

There’s Something

in the turn of a narrow drive
a sweep of field
the decaying house stark
against Long Island sky.
The ruined garden echos lovers
whisper in the long ago
moonlight.

How beautiful can the silhouettes of trees be?
What earth stirring there is
in a small placid lake
separated from a crashing sea
by a small strip of woodlands.

Oh the ducks are so well
organized
but the gulls go thier own way.

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