Flesh of a New Moon, by William Kemmett, 1991

Late Night in Boston’s South End

I walk the pavement by the vacant lot
of the four-decker where I lived.
Nothing the same except the colonial
gravestones where I played, eyes fierce
as a punk’s clenched face.

In a broken doorway three black men
shoot bones into the dark corners.
And from my skull a strange anger cracks
the wall of glances we exchange —
Because they’re running furiously in place.

As I once did, these neighborhood grave
sailors turn their ships into neon-lit moonlight,
and we all watch the cement breaking
beneath us, hovering skulls churning
in a stationary wake.

—(Flesh of a New Moon, William Kemmett. Igneus Press (1991))