09-25-2016, 04:59 PM
Watching a young man, dying
Santa Cruz boardwalk music sounds
through crowds; uproar of asthmatic
swing turning back my clock, and
country, to Blossom Fair, gala
holiday, a warm spring night.
Too old for childish play, but
you wouldn’t stop, way
past midnight, lolling on
roundabout mounts missing
paint, grasping for gold.
Again you snatch, again you fall.
I still can’t call a warning, my throat
too dry, too numb. Again I watch
your slow drop, can’t look away,
music still playing as you lay
in moonlight, shadows stippling
your body, gash of dark blood
in your hair.
Stains on morning clouds.
I always think of you
as this music plays.
Santa Cruz boardwalk music sounds
through crowds; uproar of asthmatic
swing turning back my clock, and
country, to Blossom Fair, gala
holiday, a warm spring night.
Too old for childish play, but
you wouldn’t stop, way
past midnight, lolling on
roundabout mounts missing
paint, grasping for gold.
Again you snatch, again you fall.
I still can’t call a warning, my throat
too dry, too numb. Again I watch
your slow drop, can’t look away,
music still playing as you lay
in moonlight, shadows stippling
your body, gash of dark blood
in your hair.
Stains on morning clouds.
I always think of you
as this music plays.