Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Under the waiting rain

I passed through you
under the waiting rain.

the lighter pulp is heavy
under the waiting rain.

a Portland ghost- you-
two iron balls weighted
against a scale, measured.

you thought you were
a dark marauder. A boy

with Greta Garbo eyes- two
coins for the Styx current,

This day you are a ghoul,
a gated coast to walk through-
And I have no regrets.