She wanted to cook us Chicken 'Nigella'
my daughter with bright dreams
and faded jeans.
I fetched her here,
a little late
but it seems,
no faded dreams.
I drove her home
then all alone
I sweep twisted rise
my flat hand seeming to feel the roads shape,
skimming the night,
tracing its pin pricked line.
My eyes flow where
the sky reached down,
ink blotted
to rough sawn water
where ships settle in orange pool.
Turning, dark now.
Bereft of my sweet water
i am pricked by
black, punctured
so painfully sharp
by the tiniest needles
of light,
patterns
i've known
longer than life,
product of
a cats claw moon
all so certain and accurate.
All that is.
The only truth,
predictable,
beyond us,
drawing our lives.
Soft cloud now Eastward blows
chalk dusted,
lost,
to only soft certainty of
faded blue jeans.
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