The vanishing marina sees our backs as we crown The steep grass bank still slick with rain. The chill of remembering infects us, and the sound Of a few, lost cars that nose our roads in pain 5 Whines in the darkness, searching for a spot To dry and die in; Like the terrified opossums that they crucify And flatten in the gristle of the year. Tonight, The whirr of stars is stopping, and their gear 10 Drops like a stopped man from the roof Of the Olde Union House; we stop, and soon All the river's leaking contents pour Into our lagoon of knowing. The potent cocktails have us half amazed--- 15 There is nothing ominous in all this buzz About growing middle-aged. The unending Labyrinth of our loving us still gores The sore spots of our marriage. Everyone in the hospital is on the mend! 20 Our psychoanalyst friend in his jaguar Dupes the clock And races past. Pinned in the wooden balcony By guilt, eternal voyeur, eternal recur, we Sway out of our seats. And the pulsed spur 25 Of the Atlantic Red Eye goes roaring to the ocean overhead And leaves a line of red. What else Is flashing into darkness from this dock?
From the collection "Red Bank"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.