Panhandle nocturne
sit and swing,
listen
to the ghosts
ring out the wind-chime song
across the prairie dusk
the clouds roll in
they age not a drop, only deepen
as the swing hangs like never
before, waiting
the wood sags low to the horizon
forming your contour before you arrive
and a spider-numb hand holds a red-
dappled roman apple, waiting
the chimes, the ghosts, the feathered grasslands
hold their breath in the summer wind
the night holds off with no promise—
then along the distance,
the dirt roils
the ghosts were right: this day will end the two of us
before it ends itself
From The Abundant Blue, FC Press 2009
