Thursday, May 31, 2012

In high gear

She coughs in the dark
The door cracks open
The light leading through
Into the hall
Illuminating nothing,
Just the curved rails
And splintered stairs

She says she is
A cigarette lit
Lancing the darkness
Like a witch’s

The music comes
Like bars to a cage
Almost creaks and groans
Chains rattling

There is music, too,
In her head
That nobody hears

The drip and slap
Of rain water
Melting snow
From a passing season
Already lost

She has dust and oil
For blood,
And bleeds it forever

The river laps
Distant motorcycles
Vibrate under her
Like old lovers

There are moods
Budding in her
Like sour flowers

And dripping oil
Like blood
Into a dented pan

She coughs in the dark
The baton waves
Like the arm of a speedometer
Frozen in high speed
She sitting
On the edge of her seat
Roaring through the dark
Without moving an inch.

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