Reprise, of a sort
Timothy Pilgrim
Savage wind slaps screen, sash,
glass again. Her memory blows in,
black slash of night,
like slicing open a fish belly,
finding darkened clumps,
once a spleen or bad liver
in some rainbow's life.
I must find a way to surface, fight,
dream myself back, say,
to dusk, a reprise — last light, brief,
flashing low, moon, full, orange
turned gold, not glowering
before she goes. With luck,
I will be hooked downstream,
the end coming from above
though I lie still in tall grass.
