by Rick Mullin

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My love, the clanging cable car on Hyde
was good enough to break the leaden spell
that folded me in fog. The falling ride
and hint of burning elevator smell
delighted me. I felt the weight of light,
the air of all your New York cabaret.
Into the lustrous loneliness of night
I rang up from the drone of lonely day.
It dangled by apartments till the chime
announced our progress in the rich and blighted
streets of twisted asphodel and thyme.
The brakeman dropped. A love song was recited.
And as the moon rode over Lombard Street,
I swung up from the sideboard to a seat.

San Francisco, Nov. 11, 2009

Rick Mullin is a journalist and painter whose poetry has appeared in several print and online journals including Measure, Unsplendid, Envoi and Shit Creek Review. His chapbook, Aquinas Flinched, is available from Exot Books, New York, and his book-length poem, Huncke, is forthcoming from Seven Towers, Dublin. He lives in northern New Jersey.
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Published 16 March 2010