and to map departure’s tires
11 April 2012 § Leave a comment
It’s 1.30 a.m., and my eyes are full of chocolate light.
I’ve waited days for exhausted peace, and relish it.
The man offered me his home, his car, and two
of his three step-daughters.
Ate a two-dollar lunch, pulled old cash out, lost it.
We don’t talk much now that we count hours.
I miss the past with Colt revolvers and heavy darts.
Bedside love draws oblong squares where tip-toes
snap fair tendons; tear a system in denial’s service,
cry good riddance into sea’s intrepid flow, and
feel what departure sets to skin in cursive Braille,
but don’t yet bridge our distant pyres, pale –
they sent dew from meadows wilted, so
humid, flushed, she slung red sky askew,
rang rusting bells, begging afterward to stay.