The boards stretch towards,
the horizon, bending in,
and the rain has ended
as they chase recurrences in Bronx twilight.
The cyclists, couples, cooks, bums, and fishermen
are all fixed out there.
So am I, I suppose,
sitting on this sticky bench,
with a beer, under the shadow
of broken rides and tin gates.
The barmaid mixes drinks,
and washes the tables with grace,
and I feel like getting drunk,
and I haven't slept,
and I miles from certainty,
but something...something makes me calm.
Perhaps familiarity, or the familiar
of the unknown.
I am...going to be here a while.
The rides have all shut down,
suspended sculptures of sex & eyes & youth.
And I want so much,
contact implicate in it's inevitability.
A drunk stumbles to catch his footing,
the clouds swallow an already hazy sun,
a woman bares herself under the showers,
to remove sand,
perhaps to feel...
An old man washes a pear,
delicately.
Something about salt and sand and shadows,
suggests form and curve/
the importance of rocks and the
ways sleep eludes us.
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