She throws it into reverse
and we’re out.
The colors slice on tangents
as we run lights,
mirrored off the fog.
She gathers them in –
“They may be useful.”
We come up to the Zone.
She cuts the lights,
circles it from the rear.
Her clients are waiting,
Fastened like sculpture
to armatures, haloes
to incandescent light.
A permanent collection, she’s told me.
A rotating exhibit,
the catalogs say.
She’s on the landing, waving.
I'm in the crosshairs.
He had raked his nails across
the pine table. She found the grooves,
tight, wide, tight. The splash
of dirt from the planter, upturned,
then righted again. His footprints led
to the back door.
She did not know whether
she had come back to
stay, or pack. She removed
her diaphragm in the bathroom,
rinsed and powdered it. She sat on
the edge of the bed, and looked out
the window, till the shaggy outline
of hemlock stood out from
the darkness. She pulled her overcoat
up to her chin, and lay back.