(A reworking of a poem I wrote in a time of rooming houses, everyday visions, clawfooted bathtubs, visiting friends, tribal ghosts and protectors and conversations with god on the Dorchester Avenue bus.)
“Are you and augury of love?
Or love itself?”
At that she laughed,
she made a splash.
Downstairs a door was opened and
in the sudden draft I saw
the legions tramp across her back.
Under glint-eyed standards
each man drew and poised to hack
with brittle spears and swords and axes
flesh made for kisses, not excesses.
Again she laughed as with my hand
I washed the scene away.
“I cannot tell the future dear,
nor predict it from your fits.
Am I an augury of love?
Or love itself?
Accept the present, dear,
And dear, accept the gift.”