Boston

Boston 

Aaron Smith

 I’ve been meaning to tell

you how the sky is pink

here sometimes like the roof

of a mouth that’s about to chomp

down on the crooked steel teeth

of the city,

I remember the desperate 

things we did

                and that I stumble

down sidewalks listening

to the buzz of street lamps

at dusk and the crush

of leaves on the pavement,

Without you here I’m viciously lonely

and I can’t remember 

the last time I felt holy,

the last time I offered

myself as sanctuary

*

I watched two men 

press hard into

each other, their bodies

caught in the club’s

bass drum swell,

and I couldn’t remember

when I knew I’d never

be beautiful, but it must 

have been quick

and subtle, the way

the holy ghost can pass

in and out of a room.

I want so desperately

to be finished with desire,

the rushing wind, the still

small voice.

I will be in Boston most of this week for work, and I thought this was an appropriate poem to use. The imagery in this poem is quite interesting to me, especially the last stanza about the two men and the poets perception of self beauty, or lack there of.