Poetry

The ghost of the nineteenth century
still stalks the eaves 
of the hurricane house, its clapboard sheaves

When I hear that boy sing, I said, every other
Boy becomes a disappointment. Tiny wince

You flared across Boston
like a meteor, blond mane and lowered brow
in every coffeehouse off the Charles.

The town, my dear, is closing down: dead-
Bolts slipping into their sleeves, cicadas insisting

These arms, after all,
are open for no one
else. Posture of air

Come work with me awhile, Hayden,
I can use your company in the shed 
among tools your hands have never lost

What’s a song without measure,
Or a verse without meter,
Company without pleasure,

Picasso the matelot, his Colt cocked,
Amiably inert in the photo
From Houston’s museum studio,