It’s nineteen eighty-five. You’re at the beach.
December. Age sixteen. Reading Hart Crane.
The peak of Mt Parnassus within reach!
Sounds of the cold gray ocean flood your brain.
A day for poetry and truancy.
The fierce Atlantic wind batters Revere.
Sylvia wrote of “the sluttish, rutted sea”
Remembering Winthrop. (Not too far from here.)
Jump on the train and head for Harvard Square.
Browse the bookstores for anthologies
From thirty years ago.
The Welshman’s dithyrambic rhapsodies.
Those lines that make you drunk with vertigo
Your “muse of fire.” Approach her, if you dare!