Ready for the speedy return?
For the transatlantic passage?
Ready for the Autumn to come again?
Ready to run, like I did in the dark of Woods Hole years ago.
I think you cried, he stayed behind, and I took off across the parking lots to the bus station.
Steamship in the dark, bathed in florescent spotlights and winter coming soon.
Ya, I’ve spent too much time in this place.
I see that now.
Too much time in the spirit of the ocean, like spirits in the old haunts that are no longer haunted by us, only my visions of you all, as though I were a mystic in a trance.
Or maybe that’s what I’ve become.
Seeking out visions of the time back way back in the wreckage of iron and mires of coffee dates. Dig through the mud to find an old puppet from ages ago.
It was all so new back then.
Hair in the wind, Wool coats and freckles from the end of the world.
Letting go slowly but surely, drinking less caffeine now. Taking more photos. Running across the frozen wastelands of the continent. Whatever these symptoms mean, I don’t know, I’m no medicine man.
Maybe a connexion man. Gathering his memories in the hart of the wood.
I’ve got a new bag and some borrowed car keys.
I’ve got visions of the future billowing up in smoke.
Dance in the light of so called bond fires,
their light is near enough to the truth.