Some machinery became stuck
in the fields
in the mud
in the muck
yet the trees grew and birds flew

it did seem we were to be swallowed
like the earth was in a hurry
to reclaim
its dark wood and delicate leaves
so tender-light
and stronger than us.

Nights are long enough
to dream of Petra
without Knowing the salt of the desert
or the cold of a tomb,
leaving empty arms for morning
but a smiling memory fragment
of what was held so close
in the exploration of dreams;

we were there,
in sun and dust,
laughing over myths,
making our own stories.

I brush aside
apologies followed by
the same behavior.

One day feels like a thousand years.

Giving over
to nature’s righteous bells,
I insist on shadow play.

To be kept hidden, to be kept,
they made me their construct,
curves devoid of flesh.

I don’t see this as fiction.

I am more or less
a whore in sheep’s clothing,
taking my tea alone.

After the glow faded
to edges of tattered shadow,
we stopped dancing.

The lights flickered, leaving us
a delicate do-si-do, warped
like in slow motion,
a slide toward a sultry Armageddon.

No words to cling to,
we were two strangers again.