… electric! Flicker!

Some seven score and several more

miles from the clay-blue

lias and freckled-gorse of linty shores

this very evening, in my gut,

I sense the push and the pull

of her greasy tide.

Psychic fingertips!



In your town, I’m grounded;

hopeless streets divide, not rivers

in torrential flow,

but stagnant

fossil fuel & flood-lit glow.

Nothing, but go slow!


There, as ever, she

rattles. Glass  reflects

raindrops. And, finger-wet,

she bathes the pigeon-slick

pavement. The rush-hour glistens;

black and metallic,

with rusted hush.

I tongue




But she flows,

out there, she breathes.

I feel her, taste her and

believe in iron.

I can hear her

counting. “Purse

your pebble tithes

and pucker, witch.”

Regret no cup or pocket.

This evening’s wage,

as sure as shit and

nickel coins are nothing

but clues I leave behind.


And shudder!


Out on the beach, beyond

my grasp, but not beyond

my reach, I save,

blindly, in my mind,

-the hag-stone debtor-

all the shingle she begins

to turn my way.

The tap-tap rhythm

on the gravel lane

to Portland lighthouse,

I am drawn, I am

resigned to that beach.


tonight, I need her





©nickreeves 2018




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