Something they don’t tell you is that there’s a magic garden
in every courtyard in Philadelphia.
Gardens made of glass, and tears, and gunfight.
And through it all, as the sun sets,
roses creep out of window-barred pots and slither to the streets –
every atom in the city chasing that faint ocean air.
The city of symmetry, city of two rivers – entre fontaines,
je t’aime from here to there and back again,
the Atlantic rolls between us.
In the meantime, I’m eating up spoonfuls of Sundays
I’m all too willing to give.
And in this time I’ve hidden myself in every corner of the city,
every bustle in the suburbs, here I am,
sarcastically.
Found in yarn stores in South Philly,
fingers running through the strands
despite the weight of cheesesteak in my hand.
Resting the holy hollow of my body in a Temple cot in summer;
ring around my toe and vision hazed
in vodka-sparkled saturation.
On my knees in a bathroom or two in West Philadelphia
setting tiles in the floor of a soon-to-be home
so a single mother can breath a little easier for a little while.
And out here on the Main Line,
wrapped in white sheets, a pen in my mouth,
listening to that goddamned bell toll,
Waiting for the gift of Sunday exploration
in the holy city of gardens and love.
Candleships 