St. Augustine at Night

by Michelle Quick

​

At the heart of a city

that has learned to wear its ruins

on purpose, a drawbridge grants passage

to shapes intent on anchor or retreat.

An endangered right whale moans and

thumps and cries in this ocean

between us, announcing a desire

to not be alone, no—

to be with another of its kind.

​

I think of a friend who writes three

love poems a day and never edits, no—

never apologizes for the wanting.

I feel a loss on the way.

You’ll either stop it or deliver it.

Time will be marked

and I’ll learn to say that was before

as a way of explaining why

I am now different.

​

The determined red lights flash

and once more arms outstretch

toward the halved moon.

The water no longer vibrates with need.

It is still and silent and I say into it please

don’t go. Stay.