FLOOD WALLS/ John Swain
Rain balanced on the flood walls
and now a model boat departs
at the end of every road.
I wanted to go home
and torture myself
with her music and essential smoke.
Salt olives received like a toe
and so I spit out the wine
onto the knots
I now use to write poems
like a boy chased his rolling ball
to the door of Edgar Allan Poe.
I could not live anywhere,
but this room behind illumined drapes
where the future will happen
in joy and recrimination.
I lit a cigarette for years.