Coming from above


Teton wind slaps screen, sash,

glass. Her memory slips in, 


rips a black path through night — 

like slicing open a fish belly, 


finding dark clumps, 

once a spleen or bad liver


in some rainbow's life. I imagine

a reprise — white light 


flashing low, moon, full, orange 

turned gold, not glowering 


before she goes. I hope to sleep,

dream I am hooked downstream, 


the end coming from above

though I lie still in tall grass.

                            Timothy Pilgrim