the Point Breeze was claiming its name;
my collar up, sheltering my nape,
making my shoulders shift inward.

i tell her it's my Bob Dylan shift;

she's grooving, growing accustomed to me;
i am rapidly learning to abide her.
is this the "bud" to a budding romance?

holding-down the ends of the couch, we sit.

as walkers we're weaving, drunken with ennui;
walking a straignt line to a divide-able Hell;
where Heaven is only a flight of stairs up.

our hands break free of the awaiting trappings;
we stare off into the ocean's lavender sunset;
stepping out of line, now, is out of the question.

05/05/2011

Posted on 05/05/2011
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