she

 

she’s unsteady at first

the neat quarters of

yellow a procedural edge

and

step

over

this patch of dirt a

foursquare pulpit, the

first thing she sees is a

hair tie - pink closed as 

an aperture - a stray

strand stuck in the iris.

‘Here’s where she fell.’

Kevin’s gruff, the speak-easy

front for this half-price

cop, ‘And then she crawled...’

hands and knees

hands and knees

‘to here.’

the scruff and pillow of the

toppled grass,

each blade slid horizontal under

her (panic) rush (frantic)

'Where’s...where is she?'

‘Hard to tell.’

'What?'

'There's not going to be - much...'

Someone must have, seen

the sweet, draped knot

her dark and slick skinned under

him

'Show me.'

that poem's gone

 At night, on this night, I think of you - there's a gap, a fault line running down my bed, dividing feathered veins and slipping into the sea