a field in Iowa
mid-winter
on a clear morning.
There is no way to retrace
the steps of a forgotten path
on which I have managed
to walk away with
a small bit of integrity.
Despite half-awakeness
I find the wherewithal
to pull myself to the edge
of cotton sheets
and stand with conviction
against my own will
recognizable as a childhood bully.
Pushing flesh and bone
against cork floors,
not yet ready to engage
the other side of the room,
I lean on a single pane window.
Through the blur of antique glass
an invisible hand
sketches the outline of her face
red and gold on canvas.
Refocus
on crystal-dusted wheat.
Line by line
she disappears from the periphery.
I am left alone again
to my own devices
grateful for the integrity
stolen from my latest mishap
of lost recordings.
© 2013 d.c.p.
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