We leave the poet’s house at dusk,
pulling trails of steam
by our scarf baleens.
The shishy gloves
and cark of gravel follow
us to Main.
The sky was purple.
Now it’s a weather vane.
Thick orange cloud tallow
lit by lights from the plant.
And faerie lights off farther still
wink and weave in pines until
we’re forgotten. Just some town
five miles east of Bonneville Dam.
We reach the bar.
“What did he mean by
‘the din of yesterday’s sin’?”.
We order up and layer down
shooing table crumbs to ground.
At the window seat the panes
creak and bend with each squall,
the roof above drooped from rains
and snow. The glasses hum. Lights flick
tired wires plus the train’s cello
drains the hours and pints tick,
discussing Halls and When Heroes Fall.
It’s midnight now, there’s work tomorrow.
Layer up, a nod to Cal.
Outside the dark is deep,
surrounds our drawn hoods,
frost stealing feeling from our feet
between the high and wild woods.
A playful nudge, a shove, a kiss
as if we’re home
before we reach it.
acraein 