I have to explain this:
we went riding out here,
watching, whispering sweetheart, a step back from a different thought.
Everybody's looking for you,
black leather and a little trouble,
quiet reaction throughout a nightmare.
Settle down;
I'll take you to the road, holding hands.
We'll find her under low lights,formica tables and Rhapsody in Blue,the only woman in the distance.Hook in about what happened,broken up and drinking,knife whistles through the matter of fact.It's just a little trouble tomention what you mean,worry driving out of arough idea of when she might come back.
I will not specify
obvious reasons to
creep back,
the full flower of answers
in a chug of night.
A traffic light cycles
from green to yellow to red,
witch to protect half
of a golden heart,
enact animal similarities.
Huddle against the darkness.
She rides silently
through quiet streets.
Shaking in the big picture
I wish I could tell you that
you're fortunate enough
not to hear the wind
through the pines.
An owl your connection,
hunt a drugged glazed,
nearly deaf to the night.
To claim the same fate,
attended by Fear,
preoccupies the seemingly insignificant.
Your attention meticulously snaps,
the sound of caution.
I know I promised
not to call but
I have to see you.
There's two things.
First:
this house is humming,
strained at the heel
of a black pump and
a sterling column of urgent tones.
And:
I want to re-establish clean silences.
Cigarettes in any ashtray
can snap right through to exasperation,
translate a hand to forehead
simultaneously.
What is so difficult to understand?
Best nature pained, a hard smile.
It's okay.
It's okay.
You smoke with
gloved hand,
sirens small in the distance,
obediently wailing.
Gently take off my
dirty jeans,
overlooking the
wooded valley, filled deep,
a saturated trail.
We are a folded piece of paper,
blood across a dirt floor
written in what could be fire.
Walk with me,
unable to be gold,
to lovingly frame
my eye, my face.
Don't say exactly
what it is you're
talking about until
we see the light
sweep slowly
across the walls.
Talk a little,
holding back an
open bottle,
closed fist.
You've been through a lot today,
head busted open - we see half a heart,
your face torn.
The time rises.
Enter your best
patterns, a high crest of
sympathetic exit.
Close to the lens,
a partial reflection
in the pupil of
a typed page.
Run at a normal speed.
We're finished in the background.
We found where it happened,
remains three miles
east of the highway.
Ghostwood Forest, a gate;
I got it figured,
protecting what was
really out there.
Deep into the woods,
alone, just the two of you;
are you okay?
I don't think we ever forget
falling, easy fight,
the life of open evening.
The last entry,
something to get started on.
I didn't cry but
what difference does it make?
I can't believe the forest;
it won't answer the questions
that we ask, rises a fight.
You ever been surprised before,
sunlit but slightly fuzzy?
I didn't love, anyway,
cocaine positive, doubt the innocent,
impossible control.
Nervous about meeting J tonight.
He said trouble to give -
that's something to get started on,
looking all over for
instant recognition
behind the Roadhouse,
in the driver's seat,
blue neon and a
folded note - am I this happy
sparsely opened?
Told you we'd see this again:
the letter R
on a tiny piece of paper,
light attached to the victim.
He left us with a white speck, magnifying.
The looking glass dislodges.
Resume scene.
We've got a lot to talk about.
Focus on the sound,
white-tiled room and
humming machinery, throb of
distinctive wounds.
I need something to grab onto,
my connection suffering,
a witness to
the dead girl, autopsy
under the nail of her finger.
Leave us alone, please,
damage not responsive,
particles scraped up to a
horrified whine.
I'd like to look at her,
exposure to one word
that she hasn't said,
a shroud of pine.
We were close more than once.
