leaving salem with him

there are salem doorways perched about everywhere, and you
choose them to lean against, and you are like a blinded merchant
who can mistake even the most glowing smile for a dour
blandishment of expected rain. but do not be afraid. we

can still leave this city and run out towards the countryside,
where everyone is still used to dancing, and you can be
brought up towards sight after the moon rises, and there

are no grim puritanical specters lined against the rows
of green mountains. it is not your fault that you were born an
olive branch into a place of shadows and iron, into a monolith
of copper statues that collapse with pressed centuries and

there is a public
train leaving for Eden in a few moments, and I
shall lend you some change, which you can
pay back after we have seen the sun together for
the first time, like walking into a new museum, or
swimming in a cold river when the
rest of the world is haughty and garbed in

the cobweb of dark blue. you and I can go swimming
in a cold river. you are not blind, I can swear to this,
you simply have to see a field without doorways. I am

smiling now. I am smiling
now. I am standing almost to your chin
(i am growing taller) and

smiling. come with me into the gardens that I have known,
and you can believe in every single devil if you want.