High up, swigging
bottles we stole from that bar off Xingguo Road spilling from
at least 100 stories, tall
tales of love
With our legs dangling over the edge, the city,
an endless fabric of a sequin shawl sprawled
out far beneath our feet
As if the world was shaken and all the constellations fell to the ground,
As if we were shaken and out poured some liquid reminiscent
of gin sparkling and
Cambridge, here, does not glitter at night.
There’s a plaque in Central Square next to a sewer that says:
Drains to Charles River.
But every time I pass I misread it as DON’T JUMP
Peripheral gleam on a dim street.
Memorial Drive is a poignant walk at night.
The Boston side has fallen face first into the water
Someone once told me to “conquer inanimate objects” but
how when I can’t even grasp them
I rush to the edge
and sway before the black
water and daffodils.