She doesn’t mean to
slam the door
before locking it,
slam the blank book on the table
before she drinks
her morning coffee.

Never meant for one night
in the Flats
to mean so much.

Wishes she could separate
the mean from memory,
the moment from charisma,
the hero from reality
beside a narrow snake
of a river.

She just wanted
to dance
is a lie

told and retold
and forgotten
by everyone
especially the singer
throwing wisecracks
at her, at the crowd.

Everyone save her.
Save everyone who ever let one night
change their lives. Save me.

When asked
in the right tone
on a morning
without painful weather,
she replies:

Every song
I have tasted
in June
turns crimson
by the final

chorus. The bridge
smells like lilacs

only when
a pedal steel
bends the stems.

Locked inside
a storage vault,
sculptures recite
odes to black
cherries. I know

they are dancing
behind the blue
curtain. My yellow
is not the same
distance as yours

from Saturday
in an empty garden.

She can’t decide
if she’s coming
or going. If

the RV
with her family
name painted
on the back
speeds past her,

(how can it not
with her traveling
on foot)

she won’t curse
the whipped-up
wind that hits
her calves
from all directions.

Won’t forget the hemp
rope bracelet
they used to wear

year round
to keep laughing
gull calls

fresh in their heads
on the darkest
winter nights.

I.

Over 400,000 pounds of garbage
left on the Moon. Phosphenes
can’t be captured and trapped

inside a snow globe
no matter how tightly she squeezes
her eyes shut when she prays

at dusk. 96 bags
of human waste including vomit
remind her how much

vertigo gets in the way
of traveling to the edge
without a horizon.

And she would have brought
Baggin’s feather back to Earth.

II.

Black cherry lipstick
doesn’t look like
black cherries crushed

on her lips. Left on
a chipped ceramic mug,
it reminds her

of the Red Wing Shoes logo,
which harks back to a wild swan
wing dyed scarlet.

She wishes she could ask
what happened
to the rest of the swan.

And wild eagles do soar
above the Mississippi River bluffs.
And cats and window panes

kill more birds
than wind turbines do.

III.

He has the park
to himself after it rains.
The sun comes out

just before it sets.
It’s not too late to change
his mind. Lies

can be forgiven
if the alphabet is
cracked but not crumbled.

If he sounds it out
slowly with purpose.
If he holds each position

for 30 seconds. If he leaves
a light on
near the rear window. If

he doesn’t fear the dead
silence of 3 a.m.

I want to say a word
or two about hawk eyes
and mean it. This morming
for over an hour
on the balcony railing
eight floors above the ruin
courtyard, it watches us.
Watches over us. Perfectly
still, is it napping?
Is it real? Stuffed?
An office dog wanders
by the window. Suddenly,
a remarkable span of feathers
spreads out and across
our view of the river.
That was no duck.

A long rake will be needed
to shake those black
mortarboards from the elm branches.
A shorter one to tear
the dresses from their grips.
They climb up, out, and away
with so much care.
Still, the cellar door—
that beautiful cellar door—
gets slammed shut
with brute force.
Hip bones click
before they creak.
It rains, then hails,
then they must step
to the side
to remove cold stones
from their shoes.

She has so many strikes against her
she could play a half-broken
Venetian blind left open
in an upper floor apartment
on a hot sunny afternoon
in some O’Neill drama.

The building speaks
in tongues before it bursts
into a torch song. The one
about the skyscraper
that turns it back
to the old rowhouse.

The sun never shines
in those rooms,
with or without
the curtains drawn.

She dreams she gets lost
in her own city
in a van with people
she thinks she recognizes
as friends, associates, fans
of his. He’s nowhere to be seen.

It stops at an intersection
with a view of a river and
carousel she can’t name.
Suddenly she remembers
riding it with him.
But he’s nowhere to be found.

The van stops moving.
The building stops
its low-pitched moan.
She stops sleeping.
It’s a new game, new day,
and the field is covered in dew.

this long
weekend is
not a lost
weekend is
slightly damp
is clearing
up is passive
voice is break
a sweat up
the winding
hill is remember
when 13
miles was
no big deal
was a craving
for the high
inside the zone
with only the body’s
naturally manufactured
opioids or is it
endocannabinoids was
an addict’s dirt
trail dream through
hyper-green groves
will be released
legally without
a prescription
again if she can
tolerate the pain
of another hill
to get there
will it to be
there for
yesterday’s tomorrow

I hide inside
this shirt that hangs
below the thigh
on one side.

I would never
willingly return
to Vegas. Would board
the slowest train, if

it headed home.
Cardinal directions

are an illusion I can’t read
from this distance.
My internal compass
isn’t moral, doesn’t glow

in the dark. Invisible currents
tend to glide the vessel east.

Walking in the rain
without an umbrella
or slicker in late May.

The bascule bridge
is drawn up.
A tall ship moves

slowly through.
People mumble
to themselves.

The pause
breaks a chain
of unfortunate thoughts.

She hums
a made-up tune.
No lyrics yet.

Some letters
have gotten drenched.
Others will drown.

* Nick Drake