she sang to me
(and to more than
only me),
her voice hitting notes
reserved for
gods
(or in dreams).
and those unrelenting
waves conjured up phantoms
of things better off behind
closed doors
like some endlessly
rolling penny
heard yet left
unseen.
we never met
(of course) but had she
and i bumped
each other’s way
across some back alley
or moonlit street
her eyes would have caught
mine captive,
drowned in pools
of liquid night
and forever lost
or unable to say goodbye
or (wanting to) escape
back to what i
always already
knew.
and if life
is like a pipe
then some puff
of soul
drifts on (how terribly
cliché)
within those vibes
which keep rolling along
criss-crossing
both aether and web —
but most days
that simple truth
isn’t enough to save
me from dying a hundred
times from dread
and sliding inexorably
back into
black.
