He’d been walking the margin between sky
And sea when the southbound train rammed him,
A trespasser along the liminal
Whose error was corrected fatally.
All day we heard the gurgling rumor of boats
Combing Beverly Harbor for what was left of him.
Old men speculated over beers and newsprint
Dripped like salt from empty nets.
What could there be to say? His last arc hung
Over the city like a question mark, and at night
I slept restlessly to dreams of white flesh
Sinking underwater, mourning him like a martyr.