the esplanade

there were three wooden doors

before the one that led to 

your quiet bedroom

with the black and gray quilt

there were glossy trumpet notes

that floated upwards

past your window

jarring and incandescent 

there were lights that scattered

dancing and howling above us

red like warm hands

blue like your sweater

there were those soft ways 

you took my unmade, fumbling heart 

and stuck it back together

with a little spit and some dreams

there were pearly afternoons

on castle island

watching planes take off in pink light

while you fed me milkshakes 

there were starchy nods from first martyrs

four hundred twenty two steps

upon saint stephen's street

from your door to my window

i'm sorry you suffered

there are times now when

i put my mouth on the mouth

of some man whose eyes 

remind me of yours

they have a bit

of the frozen Charles in them 

but the dirty ice

isn't quite thick enough yet

to stand upon