STATEN ISLAND FERRY
We can see as one,
from many boats,
the beauty –
from the ferry to Staten Island,
from a kayak in the sound,
of souls, white steamers,
like diamonds resurrected
from lumps of coal,
in the clock face –
that’s us, young together,
magicians headed for a shore
that confounds so many
but is the perfect landing place for us.
Our intellect
is like feet on wet soil,
visioned on the rivers of the world,
like a verb, that immaculate engine,
both of us, making tracks up the dock
and laughing – now I lead, now you lead –
swift and slow, slow and swift,
smell of smoke, some city buildings,
leafless lots and emerald flame
from the bloodshot sunset,
feel like I’ve cashed a big check
though my pockets are empty,
burrow deep in the rushes
in the wake of our getting here.
This time we’ll buy up
the parks and the houses,
with a broken bottle
you just about step on,
where a condom half-buried
backs up to the bus terminal,
and the small hand of a child –
where’s the poolhall?
where’s the jazz club?
where’s the jail?
where’s the doors throw open?
but there’s shelter in stupor,
there’s wine in abandonment,
there’s hallowing in the dark to come.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review.
Fixator Press 