Old Bricks

Grey and wet and nearly slept,
down by the waters where I wept
and watched the sunset,
killing all my summer days.
I was born into a hazy autumn under that bridge.
And alas, the city is wet with colour
and dead with candlelight,
and we're only now relearning what love is,

and dipping our feet into the fragile waters of society.

Light trickles in again,
subtle as the summer wind
off the industry's metal horizon
and the discoloured portions of the railway section,
and the piles of rocks and glass.

The power lost, the dark
threw caution lighting like a stylized rhyme
and there's no reason you'll be seeing
she's just waiting, blooming, seething*
(held hands in the morning mist
held her eyes open when she kissed)

The park rising in the freezing wind from the port
small trucks rolling past a party of three
with the drugs and the rocks and the glass and the sea
along the shores of rain dog beach.

The trail stretched cuts the woods in two
and throws our passage by the wayside, far out
The children taken aback
taking it back
looking with giant eyes
at the giant pupils
of a stange man's gaze
(coffee on the rocks
cold beer under the dock.)

The winter, having crept in
will soon be ashes again and
along the shores the ice will gather
like dinner plates tossed into a backyard dump. Shattered.
The metaphors abound,
the dying city; listless, void.

She's a dream when she goes walking
by our shores and calls our name.

The name's change but the city's standing still
With the illness of an old man lost
whose sons have set
and closed their eyes.