This restless collection,
as seen from the Tobin Bridge.
of distant steeples and obelisks
gleam against dusk.
Blackened boats appear lodged
in the deserted clay of Mystic rivers,
a passing stillness juxtaposed
with far neon horizon
glows a fiery pink sun
tied in a tourniquet
of Chelsea street wires
rising in glistening webs
above triple-decker pigeoned beds,
where decrepit stairways
become stoops to stare away
into the still blue hue of the night sky.
It is indeed East
and only the windows
keep out the smell of the sea.
It takes an ocean to remind me
my true current is like no other,
but a restless collection of the old and new,
driven through the rattle of cars,
the racket of hammers and saws,
no construction can cover over completely
its darker history.
Claims of witchcraft, betrayal and mystery,
nineteen innocents strung up in a Salem tree,
stained remnants lifted off of Giles Corey.
A moment for reflection for restless souls
as ancient bells into churchyards empty.
All these layers
held in the ice and sullen brick,
passing through the melting drip of alleys that I knew as a kid.
This restless collection no longer hidden
three decades ago,
the cold rain
washed away the season’s first snow
as it does today
despite what is underneath it.
For every place I’ve been finds the same pattern.
It seems painted and perceived,
if not tainted and deceived,
sewn into the strands I’ve received
ragged from the road,
experience hardened into its frame.
I feel the ravens of memory claw at me,
their restless collection
on unsteady limbs is necessary,
like every tear in the thread,
even if ultimately it needs to be shed.