2 New Poems

Flights From Newark

The roads were a circulatory lighting,

bounding through the dusk clouds,

as ocean turned to squared farm,

farm to looping concrete, prefab

constructions, the same million dollars,

spent over and over again.

We gave way, three thousand miles of briny air,

the river of shipping containers flowing

in crane's time long to the horizon,

the last strains of Staten Island's finery

flickering on to the pale ghost

of the coming Irish dawn.

Dashed again, feet crossed, squeezed,

between two rests, formalized polystyrene,

rubber-stamp size package of pretzels,

and cola to keep ourselves company;

I had a partner for conversation, name lost

in a light-headed haze now.

Meeting Old Crushes for Coffee

When all the other rooms had parties,
swelling deep bodies passing, echoes of

whiskey barrels and draught distilling,

I'd just sit in with my books and highlighters,

self-righteous in the glory of refusal;

the same thing with the flip-switches, the

silence as flashlights carried past the dorm window.

I heard it all on Monday morning,

anyways, reasons for smug smirking.

She'd love this, though, clear and sober,

desperate and loving me, wound from

film stocks and cigarette burns,

the feeling I could wait another twenty

years, as long as her patience.

Far past freshman times, after a sip or

two of whiskey, a pint or six of slushy

conversation, still the same; the luster of

adolescent daydream, now as squint-giving

reflection, no less empowered for it.

Braver men than I would try, admit something,

be a writ of witticism, painter of poetry.

Other people could have parties:

I needed two planes, and an ocean.