In the running cloud running,
painted spaces for here, forever ago,
in grand expanse of oceans' tide,
cascading crush of eroded eons,
sediments and spaces between,
it never did matter.
It never did that you live
near Astoria Park now, spinning
about with East River glass water
with bottles and cups and cap-cans
scattering in concrete heat, bleating,
it simply didn't.
It's simple to say you
don't talk of bitter clovers
again, that fluttering typist ribbon,
inky parchment, smoke sticks on
fire escapes with reconstructed Bolsheviks,
caught your fancy instead.
Instead of Midwest archways,
nervous jitter-jatter of North Country hands,
untrained for love's surgical nuance,
unused to ribbon cuts' clarity,
instead of, frankly, my drinking shadow
it isn't all that.
All that meeting of glowings wonderous,
those things deserved from hair curls down,
those things spoken of small town girls
who follow dreams to spires spun gold,
turn to ashen trust for bitter fingers