Prologue

Corsage scratches wrist;
shoes pinch little toes;
fingers clenched; dizzying
whirlwind — smooth girls with
pinned flowers, easy laughs.

I

We pull the late
sunlight from the sky as you
stroll into the green,
your ancient gang of gods and
muses effervescing.

II

We abandon you
to the circling tides.
The phone does not ring.
The darkening night swallows the moon,
taking as it alone desires.

III

Your Sunday afternoon sleep
drapes the tv room, legs flop
over the coffee table,
habitual drone of soccer —
the night hidden, secretted away.