Quicksand to lay down softly,
but with enough distance
to let hands fall easily. Hazards 

of love, or some slow drone
of a tune: banjo string twang,
his father telling me it was

a simple instrument to play–
but heavy pull of accordion,
I can’t make it sing or breathe…

Was there a pattern to the stars
that night? The reel I last saw
you in is a blur, choppy: only

murmurs of cicada warning, fan
whirring at the mothership, some
string of lights falling behind

your dark face…How do you say
goodbye to a spirit you never
knew was there in the first place?


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