How the nights flow into days
oh like rivers and streams,
passing like dreams.
My feet are the atlantic bound to meet my baby
on Long Island sound
From knotted Pine and hulking redwood of logging country,
where it rains most of the time
Where the rivers take off like roots in the soil,
where X marks the spot and sailors wake up shanghaied
and roses are thrown to the bulls.
Rivers older than Wars, Fires on their shores
with curtains of days in pastel twilight, curtains in nights blown wayward like ghosts in the wind
lilac, the talcums, graphites and Lazulite heavens in the fjordic chasms I hide behind.
I no longer beg in front opulent masters in mirrors or atop soapbox.
I dance where shadows cloud my purity and smoke signals rise to applaud me!
Signals sent to the wrong side of me and my eyes are dry and dried up they choke for her key, eyes brown as cacao.
After the storm we take the spring out of the clock
April showers smell like mustard seed, flowers like saffron, and moistens like silt
and we pander our fancy and clap hands to the general public. I sit from this bar stool and cast my eyes ever downward on my shoes...
I can tell they are a strangers.
And in these robot nights when the tiger lilies wait in the grass to eat up my belly when morning comes wounded,
and all this masochism like a colony of ants is used as an impetus to write you these words.
On timid nights like tonight I want to be in your bed...
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Comments about this poem (Portland: Echoes by jerome moore )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
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(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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(22 February 1819 – 12 August 1891)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
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