Winter asks for one true moment
and the sharp clicking of heels on the concrete stairs
(the sound of leaving)
stops you cold.
Bruised lips smeared into a smile
and a mist of opium that floats around her like a halo
as she makes her way left on the avenue
and two steps along the way to pick out apples and the morning paper.
Crisp Granny Smith-scented air and the seductive warnings of El Nino.
Painfully white orchids begin to fail under the distant December sun
and she turns it all around with those butter-yellow eyes.
We exist in circles, she said biting into the tart greenness
and you could do little more than but agree.
Watching teeth sink into flesh and wincing with the pain.
Honey-colored leaves crackle and crumble into dust
--airborne into a tornado of nature dying.
She softens her touch, then fades.
The sharp clicking of heels on concrete stairs
(that sound of coming and going)
still stops you now,
just like "Allison" playing on the radio makes you cry
and the mournful wail of leaving trains pierces through your center.
Night after night the light from passing cars
Scorches shadows into the wall.
These days, I'm burning letters like religion, you said.
Sifting through the ashes for a promise of summer.
Everything beautiful is far away.
