Sets Her Right

She almost settles
for a blank page. At the last
minute, she drops

ink—no coloring
inside or outside
the lines. There are none.

Just a geometry
of faith in some kind
of muse. Be it green-tinted

goslings growing by
the second in the grasses
along Lake of the Isles. Or,

some other miracle
still capable of bursting

on the scene upon our poor
wearied planet.

She Becomes

a solitary woman
in an Edward Hopper painting. A silhouette

on an empty
bed, she gazes out an open

window in a New York City
five-story, walk-up. Hair pulled

into a dancer’s bun, dressed
in a pale peach nightgown. Bare

thighs—this is not
loneliness. She becomes

in awe
of herself

and the world
in early morning.

Not that Kind of Screed

Again, she quickens
her pace so those footsteps
don’t overtake her. A rhythm

so familiar. Turning
a corner doesn’t shake them.
She dashes across the intersection

sporting a strip
club posing as a cabaret
and a parking ramp—still

she can hear them. Ten
more blocks, she can’t take
another moment. It’s the kiss of road

death, but she looks over
her shoulder anyway. Nothing

but the echo
of her own feet. Not even
her shadow this time.