"Who belongs to these boats? They do nothing but knock against each other on the docks. They are rusty and no one's. Probably some kids sneak on them at night to drink beer, smoke, and kiss. Two boys who dream of sailing. Or a girl and a poet grinding starboard. Or all four of them, looking for some early trouble. The stinking river, the lit up bridge, the bottles, the curious tongues. The old highway and the open city. I remember what it was like, no one has to remind me. But on school nights, nobody squats on them. Just me, sitting here on dry land, filling them up with ghosts. I'm not scared. I'm collected. They're all my own. I'm just facing Jersey. It's heartbreaking in the dark. Kind of like a sullen moon, blue and gleaming, doing its thing, looking back at me, down on me, over me and all..."