I grasp thin recognition
by the shoulders,
bell-up hurt in background
consuming the white,
an immense hand
to silence a nervous sheath
of inner worry.
The bed has been slept in,
lace and black coffee a practice.
Late everyday, a verse, no chorus.
I have to re-establish access
to the bottom of the stairs,
don't want to mention
the urgent morning.
I’m on my way
one line spinning
towards the door,
highway a camera,
the call to weep,
a closeup in contrast
to dawn.
What’ve we got?
A body at harsh angles,
awkward surroundings.
In the water,
distinctive wounds,
the girl’s wrist.
Who is she?
Face into view,
examine details.
Seeing her back
you want to turn,
a shy position.
Waiting on the edge,
we haven’t touched anything.
Our heads down,
the grasp of a girl’s end
passes above
as we back down.
Cut to Black Lake,
a picture window at
water level,
a woman’s body
cautiously rugged.
A gap of dark,
the shores something horrible,
face down and bruised,
the first light of leather.
Empty at the end of
Highway 21,
seventeen and running onto the edge,
you don’t say a word to anybody,
seven fires shaking between the sun.
In darkness
the sound of a
meadowlark’s song
between two mountains,
Whitetail and Blue Pine, the Twin Peaks.
In the shadow downtown
no sign of life,
empty stretch of road
backlit by a bright eye and
beak of the bird,
an early rising littered
with last night’s trash.
Dawn cycles,
slow moving from green
to yellow to red,
a sober ballad slightly run down
imposing granite,
images of white neon,
night shift kick.
Fade in,
react to the kiss,
the meadowlark silk lost
in a dreamy state of mind.
Look outside, idle vanity
caught across the gravel.
Open, automatic expression
about to drop.
You hold on,
stay right there.
