Sunday, April 26, 2015

April 26

Spalding [and everything is fine]

Stare off the end of the boat
at the water churning in your wake.

That's your past, a mindless froth
returning so rapidly to gentle
ripples of velvet.

The other figures on the ferry are
flickering shadows. The mist
is thick and welcoming and resistant
to reflections.

It would not be bad
to be embraced by arms of fog,
smothered painlessly, soundlessly,
all those spinning gears instantly gummed up,
the echoes stifled, the racing images erased.

A single motion and all goes dark.
And that would be fine

if it wasn't for the fear of pain,
if there could be some guarantee
that there would be no pain, both yours
and of those distant others who keep insisting
they love you.

Who knows, maybe they do.
In the meantime, I watch the water.
If not tonight, then soon.

There are plenty of boats, plenty of bridges.
A generous stretch of river
with an endless supply of current,
and, on certain nights, that wonderful
annihilating fog.

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