A girl on the stairs listens to her father Beat up her mother. Doors bang. She comes down in her nightgown. The piano stands there in the dark Like a boy with an orchid. She plays what she can Then she turns the lamp on. Her mother's music is spread out On the floor like brochures. She hears her father Running through the leaves. The last black key She presses stays down, makes no sound Someone putting their tongue where their tooth had been.
C. D. Wright - 1949-2016
Night: wears itself away clouds too dense to skim over the shear granite rim only a moment before someone sitting in a mission chair convinced 101% convinced she could see into her very cells with her unassisted eyes even into extremophiles even with the light dispelled until the mind sets sail into its private interval of oblivion a hand falls from its lap a pen drops to a carpet a stand of leaves whispers as if to suggest something tender yet potentially heart robbing Sequel: to a dream in which faces flare up fuse dissolve but there is a lot of color before their vanishing and a name for such phenomena that comes from the belly of a lamb rather not a lamb anymore from the stomach of a particular canny but kind and blind-from-birth ewe for Susie Schlesinger