Bainbridge

These riverine cities

And suburbs of sand
Stick in my skin til I shiver;
Malevolent eddies
And filial flows
Echo my name in the dark.

A motorcoach paces
The shallowest depths,
Plying its route anew;
The memorys here
But thought doesnt follow,
Sobbing all over your lawn.

Tysons
Fringe town looks fringier
From eight floors up
The light in here stinks of rain.

Arrayed before me
In prisms and runes:
Star-crossed oracular curses
Tucked in ethereal archives.

My lead-laden gut, my night-freighted pate,

Step to me, call me a liar;
Rehearsing the death of our misbuttoned cause,
Now raindrops,
Next time?
The pyre.