1912: Hush Harbor

When the sheriff beats him, insisting

he’s guilty, he harmed

a woman this morning—

When she cannot identify, falters,

when the deputy offers him coffee,

a smoke, and leads him to a bare room—

When the deputy says strip, makes him

remove—

When the deputy says put these on,

soiled overalls he’s never seen, a loose

shirt, a bandanna, not his, none of it,

but now he roughly fits her description,

now lie overthrows truth, now she cries

it’s him—

When the mob howls

on Federal Street—

Sometimes, a man might struggle.

Or lay his body down. Or make

a hush harbor. Or cross the river

and rise to the cliff tops, secret place

under the electric billboards, flashing

letters twenty feet high, now gold,

now green, hideaway where one night

he camped, dreaming the last things

he saw, blue pines

and words made of light—