I am the clay and the cold grey grit.
Where the autumn leaves and the pavement knit.
He stepped on my spine with a heavy tread.
A projectionist dreaming of silver thread.
Caught in the red brick orbit now.
Broken and bound by a stony vow.
Tangled in lines where the city glows.
Down where the cold Boston river flows.
He dropped his lens and he lost his way.
In the amber light of a dying day.
I felt his heel on my jagged edge.
A sudden slip on a granite ledge.
He smells of ozone and old film reels.
The heavy weight that a worker feels.
I hold his wrist in a mortar grip.
While the golden map of the season slips.
Caught in the red brick orbit now.
Broken and bound by a stony vow.
Tangled in lines where the city glows.
Down where the cold Boston river flows.
The harmonium hums a low dark tune.
Under the ghost of a white noon moon.
One sudden snap and the tension breaks.
The sleeping city of winter wakes.
He looks at me with a tired stare.
The scent of cider in the crisp air.
We are a knot in the historic street.
Where the ghosts of the harbor and alley meet.
Caught in the red brick orbit now.
Broken and bound by a stony vow.
Tangled in lines where the city glows.
Down where the cold Boston river flows.
Red brick orbit, hold me tight.
Sinking slow in the autumn light. Hold me tight.
Hold me tight.
