If you could believe,
in the pigeon nests of memory scabs
still warm with the rush of nerves
and blood and brick,
the weight of a sigh
could be measured in
the dots of sand and bad luck
and so much God awful silt
torn away from it
to reveal its bald sea glass shine
as it sank
and if you could believe
that underneath the November wind,
chasing inland
like hounds after the sunrise's
nine tails of red, orange, and bruise,
something could hold fast to lips
tighter than any secret
fastened and buckled
beneath grid blocks and
iron sewer locks
burbling wino cigarette lipped
in dim confidence
and more significant still
and if you could believe
that the Atlantic
is not home to the land she grates
as much as the land she touches
is a wall between her and
the warmth she could know
if a city state had not sprung loose
like a droplet of salivic humanity
on father time's already stroked out face
you could stand on the coast of Baltimore
and believe you had a right to be there.
But you're just a fucking tourist.
We all were.
