By Graham Hertrich
Beneath the boardwalk at Coney Island
pure tremolo sounds and intersections.
Nectarine swirls, blasting from nowhere,
sun hung horizon, trapped shadow in the distance.
And along comes the dark clouds,
bruised fruit fills the sky.
Night begins to fall
like a fine white powder.
Memory dust in summer,
sweet sunken depths of black sound
Through my veins,
circles of darkness begin to form like blisters at the edge of the garden.
Lips ache without water - lethargy,
a soft, sweet lump in the throat.
Dragons of silver torch, hanging and dancing and falling and breaking
melting and fading, like a fever before me.
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