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