I Went to Meet You

Dismantled from the Highlands,
Loveless and failing the trials of men,
I went to meet you, St. Patrick,
At Four AM, in the Train Station,
Lurking through lowlands of
Plastic mops and glass and glaring
Tiles.
After kicking me out, my old flame nestled high in a wooden frame—
With a pumpkin moon.
So,
I tumbled
Underneath,
My companions: A rolled ankle
A sausage, egg & cheese with a medium coffee,
A crescendo of blue patchwork and fluorescent pigeons.


By Five AM, St. Patrick, you took one home,
To one of those Brownstones in Brooklyn—Can’t blame you,
There’s a mattress involved.

I laid down
On the station’s knotted bench
Nestled in a fold of stubble and flannel,
My stringencies pulsed
And lips fermented to raisins,
Hearing voices juggle
Tides and teasing,
A drone from the doorway.


Once a French girl told me,
“Any person I love, I’m gonna call home.”


Apollo must be perched above her now,
But I am here
Curled on a bench,
Eaten from the inside by African dreams.