The Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge
I’m crossing the bridge. I can feel
the night below
the guardrail is haunting me, the
abyss of the Cooper River.
The moon and the stars are scary
The bolts are holding up the sky,
the billowing concrete lights.
I’m meeting the Isle of Palms. I am
no longer high strung.
The Arthur Ravenel Jr. is a ghost
across the tree
line. I’m safely in the dark of the
Charleston Honeymoon in August
Along the battery, I feel like a bottle of
as the palm trees are still, as
if to pause
like a mirage of Charlestonians
the Hunley is on a barge, a
after a hundred years of
and black painted cannons
I’m trapped in the Sun of the South
want peace like a bottle of aspirin.
And a honeymoon like cherries and dip.
The City of Charleston
I like the old city. It fills me full
How the horses still clop on the
A clipper ship floats in the harbor
as if it has cross and bones
when the only lantern seems to
as steps draw nearer, between the
the shadows and the Spanish moss.
The Backstreets of Charleston
It’s a cold and rainy night in Charleston.
I’m walking in the glaze,
as if the backstreets
I come to the building where
the door looks like time.
I step inside the first room is
the second a courtyard
for weddings, and
the third a dance hall.
Oh! How contemporary is the
bride and groom,
between these walls,
streets of cobblestone
where lanterns once flickered and glowed,
I step back into the eerie dark with suit
Visit to Charleston
Lying in bed at the Hamilton. The
sounds of the night. On the
cobblestone below a bus by the
concert hall. I am not isolated.
Even the hallways seem to talk.
There is a lamp, a pad, and desk.
And the pen flows like the Cooper
The traffic like a moonlit lullaby.
Oh! How deep a dream can be like