No wharfage, no
soft edges, no more
ice cubes or chances
to be normal, nothing
left of the landscape
that’s photographable,
no imaginary friends
seated at the dining
room table
and certainly no soup there,
no fish in the river,
no miracles arriving
in the form of phone calls,
no signs warning children
of the dangers of falling
from windows,
no muscular sailors
who happen to be passing by
to catch the children as they fall,
no sailors at all,
no boats or water,
no gum wrappers left
to fold into smaller
and denser arrangements,
no faded bronze plaques
inscribed with history lessons,
no history, no ability
to silence the advertisements.
Are there some places
where love simply
doesn’t grow as fast
as it decays? And by places
I mean people. And
when you fall
asleep is when
I need you
most desperately, because
without your eyes on it this
whole town disappears.