The crescent moon lingers
Over the uplifted tip of the arcade some
This last warm night in November
A witch’s cradle I cannot reach
Regardless of how I puff myself up
This dark night with day glow sky
Over a barren Asbury
Park
And I ache as I walk among its ruins
The cooling air beating at my sweaty brow
And my rubbed-raw limbs
In a world of dog-sniffing and vacant lots
The space inside me nearly as empty
Although brimming over at the same time
With a building steam I have no way to let out,
And fear I might explode if I don’t
If only I could touch the tip of the moon
Where its lip lingers waiting for a kiss
Or caress, waiting for the round tip
Of the arcade dome to make contact,
This collision of words transpiring
Inside and outside as I stumble
From one end of the board walk
To the other, invisible and blistering
In the warmth of the eve.
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