by Allison Thorpe
Night, that open mouth,
smacks greedy lips
in raw rimy bluster
but cannot sour the moment.
Know this:
you were born to leave.
That house of done dreams
like a bad check
veils the purchased history
best left to dust and ash.
A boy you hardly know
waits down the block,
smells of smoke and pine trees,
cocks his head when he smiles.
You wrench the car door quietly,
the warmness a feral harbor.
The shotgun-riddled town sign
cannot fade fast enough,
as headlights blaze purity
over all the abandoned beginnings.
Your hands clutch as if in prayer
though you know none
but the hymn of wheels
beneath your restless feet.
Let the darkness swallow you.
Let the throat begin to purr.
[More poems by Allison Thorpe]
