A Poem About Brighton
A Poem About Brighton

What had once been chanced upon, 
like a heavenly gift of supernatural bands 
and poems without parades, 
is now a tomb we cart about
full of rotting clichés
and blows to the head 
like a relentless mistake 
that just won’t die.
We go over the stones, 
beside the sea—black, no matter
the time of day or the season—

past the church, 
the hideous church, 
reminding me that 
every religion gets dressed before the dawn. 
Ha! Yes, you've caught the place ! (or the plaice).

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