Falling Rock
No clean getaway, no body
without mirrors: arms
olive and emerald cradle a mountain road’s
narrow gray sash, thin to whitecaps
of granite, scrim
of old snow. A name is written
with how many wrong turns?
Disappear, and someone is staged
to unveil the void, ta-da the magic cabinet’s
spectacular absence, count shadows, sweep the light
spelled to the boards. Someone’s left
to haul the smoking valley’s wreckage
though the steered-for cliff had promised
the pure dissolve of a plane’s
ivory plumage, an immaculate arc
thinning to air. Far
above tarmac, something
worries, loosens. Clouds constellate
sunlight’s crumbling mica.
For the moment,
balance, a vigilant pause. No need
for weather: the bluest sky
could tumble it forward.
Printed from Cerise Press: http://www.cerisepress.com
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