mausoleums in boston

meet me in the downtown cemetery.

we can lie face down in the ferns,
feel the slow slide through time,
bones colliding with those
of an ugly metropolis
buried since sunset.

the taste of pearls
falls from an unlikely ceiling
to dip into our throats
like moonshine,
drops of neon that never die.

the gravestones flicker,
fluorescent shadows
waiting for the spiders to come
weave bandages, solutions
to family feuds, business
transactions, bulletholes
in bathroom walls where
the moths sleep at night -

we can hear the corrosion
and see the rust,
touch each and every
splinter that buries itself
lengthwise along bookshelves
and our spines.

midnight in a place
where time is a tyrant,
squeezing us so hard
the stars become
geometric nightmares
and graffiti projected onto
white picket fences.

and morning will not come
unless we ask for it.

it will rise from the soil
to spread across the city,
and we will crawl back
across our own front lawns
and into houses where

the ghosts are more vocal than the living.