a story of smoke signals and colder nights

i am loved by a man
who would wrap me in grapevine

drag hip and hair through hayfields, sing an owl's song in pitch dark



and call me always, his wicked, wicked cell mate, his moon, his north

in a spit

of flame



i am five blue hues
six passive notions
and a lean toward the door handle

none of which casts a warm glow or earns proper ceding


and on a dark stretch of night
i hum an unplanting
of dogma
of fire
of a dormant daisy, long since bloomed pretty
in the ditch; smoke fills the car
maple leaves burn red and orange


and a cat's yellow eyes stare headlights

tomorrow he will not come when called

over and over again
he will not return

my hands are busy creatures; stringing words together, tapping time in my lap, unraveling blue thread from the hem of a coat