oh glorious boston night!
why must you taunt me with your periodic good weather whilst i pack up my shit for a more hospitable city?
from the port bow of my boat ride home
your full moon glows like the cross-section of an artery or a blood orange
pumping life back into a stupid teenager on the brink of drowning.
slowly rising from the east amidst a swarm of airplanes
i understand the ancient pagan rituals for a brief moment
because, after all, aren't we all just a bunch of assholes
running around outside
dancing around maypoles and cellphones
searching for better reception
when nature heaves its orange head over our harbor?
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