It was somewhere here, Coney Island
or maybe further up the coast,
a greying afternoon when we shared
the same dream.
The waters rose: slowly at first
with dulling rain
and forked lightning
out in the deep.
We passed a street preacher
soaked to his knees, holding
a piece of striped cloth,
flapping.
There are things I remember:
clouds arranged like rumbling gods,
raindrops sliding off your face,
the smell of burning rubber
and the sound. The sound!
Like a low-flying antique bomber,
like a bass drum tied to the core of the world,
like a hole in the heavens decanting time.
We woke into darkness,
holding hands, you pointed out
a ship on the horizon,
slowly moving away.
—
Anton Rose lives in Durham, U.K., with his wife and their dog. He writes fiction and poetry, and his work has appeared in a number of print and online journals. Find him at antonrose.com or @antonjrose.
Photo by: Ana Prundaru