See You in Seattle - Flipbook - Page 20
20
The lights bleed and my head swivels.
I march
to Blakey’s brushes on a cymbal,
an upright bass
charts the course
for my pulse.
Burn the ships,
there’s no going back.
The heron dives for his heroine,
the lovely phantom
his mind’s mistress,
the damsel in distrust.
a clipped wing bleeds
on the cave of
smoke, longing, lust.
On the ground,
a severed hand bleeds.
the heron spreads its wings,
licks its beak.
PUSH PUSH
