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!
Intuitive!
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
…electric!
Flicker!
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.
Ride!
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.
Again,
tonight, I need her
…electric!
Flicker!
©nickreeves 2018
nickreeves 