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Narrow Casting a Narrative, Coming Soon |
Mostly, her violin longs for more.
With a bird in the hand and some possibility to fly away.
Drinking sangria on a dusty backroad as we throw
the spent orange peels at each other. "I normally allow
men to kiss me there only if they believe in UFOs," she
says, pointing to the electronic fence around her abyss.
"And I only like my neck bit by vampires that promise
eternal life," I reply, lying with my stomach flat against
the dividing line. And four dreams appear in a row...
waiting for the read red sky to put on its black overcoat.
With bare branches so the bird can watch...
and a ditch with its own spare shovel.
In one dream we both wear nice shoes but neither pair
is comfortable.
In another we cross our hearts then jump off the bridge
into frigid rushing water at a height no one can survive.
In the wrong house, feeding the wrong dog. Or we could
just swallow the cool crushed ice and pretend its glass,
determined to mimic some of the things people do when
they're lonely or scared or want to be rescued.
copyright 2007
Maurice
Oliver |
