by Gideon Burton
"It's different now," she said, her downward glance
confirming everything: her shift of tone,
as though a sounding bell shook loose their trance;
her calm, as though time bleached a desert bone.
He reached for words, but not for words, he trawled
the murky shallows for a passing trace
of certainty to anchor to. He called
upon a past or future in her face,
a plot line rising from that almond curve
her closing eyes defined, though shutting, wet;
an answer or a question that could swerve
toward assurances; some golden net
to braid new bravery. "I'll take you home."
Then he would wander, sinking, mute, alone.
Photo: flickr - Michael Heilemann
