Hull

The ocean beats the rocks at Hull,
the currents between the islands and the bay
pencil-in the clams.

When the tide goes out
the spine travels
all the way to England,

there’s nothing bitter in my Alexander Pope.
John Hancock wrote his name down
as John Hancock.

The pond at the Boston Commons
was iced-over with Agamemnon.
Nearby, a girl in tight jeans,

sweatpants underneath
like a fine snowflake,
walked up the hill to Cheers.

I thought I saw Tino Villanueva
showing his diploma
to a cowboy from Oklahoma.

His Tejano roots have become suspect
as he flies out of Logan,
tail-fin like a frozen flower.

He swirls into the sky
and soon he’s five miles high
but you can’t go home again.