03-28-2019, 05:01 AM
Hug (version 2)
Moulting 300ft in the air, I sniff out
sea brine, mollusc dust, sprinkled into —
and crashing against— the whisky glass.
Lit by candles on the restaurant tables
and lights already reflecting
on the harbour water, I zone in on the marina
decked out in miniature, people
across the swing bridge before amber
warnings flash in the half-dark.
I can’t make out eye colour, hairstyles,
bone structure this high, just purpose
in their walk, passing blurred berths
of tugboats that look like interlocking
plastic building-blocks. Wind-whipped
walkways should entail railings.
One person pauses, sensing he is
being watched, or smelling the mollusc
dust in my drink. Joining my table.
This was the first version:
Harbour Height
Through another window, the maritime
marina is decked out in miniature
where people hurry across the swing
bridge in ones or twos before amber
warning-lights flash in the half-dark.
I can’t make out faces this high
just the purpose in their walk
passing blurred berths of tugboats
that look like interlocking plastic
building-blocks, as if wind-beaten
walkways hereabout don’t lack railings.
Except one guy, who has stopped
or merely paused, and shakes my hand
seeing me watching from the 27th floor.
Moulting 300ft in the air, I sniff out
sea brine, mollusc dust, sprinkled into —
and crashing against— the whisky glass.
Lit by candles on the restaurant tables
and lights already reflecting
on the harbour water, I zone in on the marina
decked out in miniature, people
across the swing bridge before amber
warnings flash in the half-dark.
I can’t make out eye colour, hairstyles,
bone structure this high, just purpose
in their walk, passing blurred berths
of tugboats that look like interlocking
plastic building-blocks. Wind-whipped
walkways should entail railings.
One person pauses, sensing he is
being watched, or smelling the mollusc
dust in my drink. Joining my table.
This was the first version:
Harbour Height
Through another window, the maritime
marina is decked out in miniature
where people hurry across the swing
bridge in ones or twos before amber
warning-lights flash in the half-dark.
I can’t make out faces this high
just the purpose in their walk
passing blurred berths of tugboats
that look like interlocking plastic
building-blocks, as if wind-beaten
walkways hereabout don’t lack railings.
Except one guy, who has stopped
or merely paused, and shakes my hand
seeing me watching from the 27th floor.