Davis Square Circle

bury me in a sarcophagus of sound,

cacophony of coughing clouds,

or Andrew Bird, crooning gentle,

 finger picking a fight with a crowd.

the city square’s circle,

laced with tremors

and a horn section,

the music of the indentured. 

such commotion,

lulls me into a coma of motion, 

inverting inward into innocence,

childhood of peace off the tempest ocean.

carving initials 

into Lighthouse turret

never stopped a revolution, 

a sailor’s insurance. 

bikers, 

hugged with hazy fog of night,

blind me of youthful incantations

with their Morse code of light.

children sprint across traffic. 

the careful ones

stay put on the inner banks. 

beckoning ensues from the other side. 

inhabit the city square’s circle,

a temple for strangers passing 

and tranquil thoughts, 

immerse within the temperament of traffic.

with ambling, ample stops.

Michael Carney