A LITTLE HAVEN

​FOSTER HUDSON

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solemnity and mountaintops: i was dreaming
recklessly each time i listened for the sloshing 
of waves in a boat’s wake, while the lampposts lit themselves 
silently, without any warning.

and the deepening blue of the skyline, shrouded
in haze, with the chill of clouds begging to birth snow:
i felt like a prayer, no sun nor moon to glow, 
without grace of god or spirits to guide

me over the glassy water; its shattered reflections
of car headlights and lampposts across the river: 
lift me by my feet and i’ll fade. the day dissolving 
into night, i was helpless not to study the branches 

of a barren maple tree and dream of shattered bones.
the riverside, with its spotty concrete and cigarette stubs,
was like some paradise of nowhere, an alcove of scaffolding and whirring cars.
perhaps the top of a mountain, where i could whisper to god

all of my pain, and he could part the seas in my name:
a little haven. somewhere just for me. i thought of the sacrifice 
solemnly, with a little pleasure, knowing the recklessness of my fantasy. 
pressing down on the rail, i listened for the passing of the boats. ​