Fireflies flurry over Lover’s Lane to the scent
of semen or wet dough off marshes wafted
as I ghost down the shore by bike
wondering at the hush of coy cottages
with orange lamps and ethernet nestled,
each one deeded a private moon.
Long Island gleams and blinks but no one gazes,
Gatsby’s gone; these ones are sated, and deserve it.
Passing the Dolly Madison a
single shout “Yeah dude!” startles
air so still so clear
I can almost hear the ringing
of machines stamping blingbling in China, the racket
of chilled trucks hauling Ding Dongs in Iraq
(almost, a humming highway)
and the slither of profit up fiberoptic wires
squirming its way back from spawning,
worm of money fertilizing the soil
of this enchanted sphere.
I can almost hear but not quite.
The starry membrane shimmers,
quavers, avers, shivers, limpid force field of the elect
repelling the poor.
How is a skin of silence so delicate
engined by pistons so huge?
Is there no tang of fear nor sear of sweat
in the brandy in the hand of the man
on the veranda?
A golden meniscus suckles his upper lip
he sips with a beatific smile.