Nocturne

Night, sporting her lover’s black sportcoat
—a few sizes too large at that—

arrived unlooked for & said: You knew I’d be back,
right?— her voice a traumatized snowdome—

always a small woman despite her sunglasses—white
smoke from her cigarette coalesced to lace curtains—

& those windows offered a vista on the lost
highway & headlights shining on poplar leaves—

green enamel dishwasher on casters in a dark hallway,
a linen closet, a metal frame twin bed, an orange crayon

the apple tree stunted by the fence’s corner
brace heaped white & gray with cold rocks—

a maple bannister, a red tin roof, a chrome guitar hushed
on a stand—everything in angles & hard—

no, I never was sure, I said—in black & white she
sat next to me on a red loveseat—it was all as if in a

silent movie—a movie that grinds to a close in a
smoking projector—lost highway—empty white farmhouse—

smoke—everything I wanted to believe right there in a
poem like a fistful of white pills—like

the redwinged blackbird’s trill from the wild apple—
the purple finches frenetic in a spring snow flurry—

which have morphed to stone silence & muted
sepia photographs on a gravel road in frozen fog—

ice crystals invading the lungs—breathe despite them—
she said: wake up, it’s time to go home—
 

Jack Hayes
© 2011