The gig is all waves and deep purple oceans.

His love’s feet sink in and he whispers what he can —

that she should never die, drift away in slow motion

and should he get cold – well, she should understand.

 

In the car, salt necked, her lungs are bags of music.

An endless drive back to the home’s empty beds,

so he follows the red lights, counts all the green exits,

the off ramps. Hard focus on the straight ahead.

 

The yellow guides that flow north recall

the swim of sounds, the lines left on land.

Before the kids, all was white, perfect at town hall,

then good again tonight, along with the band.

 

The rush of cars goes on and he tries to hold

the night’s center. But as she sleeps, it folds.

 

  First published in published in New Leaf 24 (2008) and revised for  Read This #15, 2009.