Wild in the Wild

There is nothing to be learned

from the curve of a comet’s flight

and everything to be learned

from the slope of her spine. 

Once, it folded for velvet and hay;

now, it accordions only for velocity and flame

while he counts his years in lost lipstick caps

and the minutes between

when she seems to want them back. 

She was wild in the wild and, at home, wild, too.

In the thousand dark drafts between the slats

of her walls, her hair was loose

and large and alive above her eyes.

She made him start a fire for her

between the summer’s pines.

She thought it would be warm and let her

lay her head amongst his sighs

long into the night, 

but a careless caress is as good as a spark 

and he ran his hand down her arm

and ignited the dark.

Over the dirt and dirty stones,

it threw itself into their homes.

It threw itself into the bones below their homes.

One hot mouth can hold a thousand screams

but one silence can contain

all they ever meant to mean.

They never had to count on hope

till it was running out,

until a late summer cloud unzipped itself

and let the saving rains pour down --

till he was crawling toward her,

lost in love that sucked like mud

and she was coughing his lost name

in wild smoke circles rising up from the charred woods.

The tree top.

The worm trail.

The raindrop.

The detail:

refracted light that might not bend again.

The tree top.

The worm trail.

The raindrop.

The detail:

refracted light that might not bend again.

She tucked her hair behind her ear,

the vision growing close and clear:

a golem or a chevalier

buried in ash, wet earth, and fear --

his searching limbs still reaching out for her,

rigored as they were. 

Over the dirt and dirty stones,

it threw itself into her home.

It threw itself into the bones below her home.

One hot mouth can hold a thousand screams

but one silence can contain

all they ever meant to mean.