Back Bay Isn't Boston

[sgt.null]

Back Bay Isn't Boston

salt marsh and shallow cove,
under a meridian sun... in a
forgotten dream about a strange
city - the lines of antiquity as
they engraven upon my memory.

blue, blue is the grass - about
the river. the sky; the color of
smoke. glare of mid-day sunshine.
a light (brokenglass) snowfall.
the sun is an orange dish on
the open broken horizon. find me.

find me amongst a grove of
wallows, a copse of trees. I will
be picking up stones in the rain.

a timbered hill; cool, green and
quiet. an ancient mill that sat
on the hill, looming over the
city center. the skies are orange
with pollution. a pale bone-colored
moon rising. the sky becomes grass,
a false sky. lemon twilight, lemon
spray, citrus hues. the moon is down.

tin-foil flowers rest in his front
yard of his crooked house. another
crooked man with his crooked teeth.
creosote soaked thatch roof (rotting)
twisted in shadow. he would go, but
he was never there. broken heart of a
cold winter night. beyond is the snow.

the sky is white and the radio is on...