Scheherazade,
with the
to help winter pass, could be five or
midnight save for the moon
low over the Navy Yard
singing its time of day.
driven over the bridge,
I never know which way to look.
born yet motherless,
spit out of reverie by the off ramp
and City Hall, the angels in black
crossing the street.
in the gardens, I kept talking,
double-dosing on pitch and punch
to
from laps to, around, and through—
the broad-shouldered bells to
my drunk velvet amnesiac.
got a grip on last night’s story
and tried to keep my head on straight,
though I fell down the stairs
and didn’t call a car.
now I’m the train’s lock-jaw prophet,
three stops from home, and still ashamed.
