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.
No comments:
Post a Comment