Let’s agree to never dream again


at the tip of Montauk,
the color of
memory is
blue

we need
this time apart
to memorize our
lives, while together
our hearts are
nimble like
crows
waiting
on
the heads of
statues

swaths of sky cut by yellow thrush;
we cannot rely on love to decide
how to live out the days,
quickly antiquated

the ocean dreams cold
and alone,
but you never
came close
to tasting
what we
came
here
for




A single magic


night slandering through the streets, taking the sway
out of every hip, the sweetness from the rose stumps
hiding beneath sweltering tangles of vines and shadow

the best sound is the train calling from ten blocks away
no direction in the night, just holding hands and living
better than half the days, mornings, or basin afternoons

so strange this trying so hard, the clawing inside of wet fingers
time will walk right by if you watch too hard, or too little
and only the trees will be left, no children to mourn you

night deriding the moon’s will, the moon’s pull on the sea
no moon can still the aching heart of another lonely midnight
only the pulsing threat of another lonely day, immutable

as the roses grow again, as the blades grow sharp
the minutes hesitate long enough for a single magic—
the cat can wait for me to arrive, but will you?


James H Duncan is a New York native, a part-time Taoist, and editor of Hobo Camp Review: poetry & prose from the road. Although a graduate of Southern Vermont College, he considers himself a lifelong student of the road, picking up non-credit courses in local dive bars, all night cafes, and used book stores. Plainsongs, Red Fez, Reed Magazine, and The Homestead Review, among others, have welcomed his poetry. His fourth collection "Maybe a Bird Will Sing" (Bird War Press) is due in early 2009. More at www.jhdwriting.com