Lindy Smith

Falling Away

she stood to the growl
of their engines over the ocean as,
they snaked out of the orchards
half-smile of peaches
each peck thirty-four cents.
gray boots dusting
the lampshade like filthy frost
their shadows stained the futon
the way sun sparkles with shadow.
plush ribbons tied around letters
briefly stung hearts
too hard to move at all
yet never resisted moving.
the tides, swelling died, even
then they feigned composure.
exhaust, exfoliating the perfume of nature
as if they were brewing a toxic tea
they penned their book-
trash wrought
disgusting.
she fitted his ring, he thought
of her as they crawled out of straitjackets
with little indentations of glass
scuffing an imprint on smooth yellow skin.
by then rifles had imposed
the fox, and the flower, dense
within the jungle, mud or sand. drinking
from pitchers of debris.
rousing her Siamese, whose tail
ignites mocha brown, dusting
a low neckline.
...the tablecloth of finalized documents.
she resists suddenly the slow, irreversible
moment-to-moment
passion of everything to keep flowing
(foreword?)
then stood awhile reading
what the bottom of the photograph had to say
while the plush ribbons loosened
a scattering of sand and the screw
fell clear of the frame