Of once seeing the lightning yourself? Of capturing it?īarbara Stanwyck, immortal in a slow oblivion,Ī secret held by fewer & fewer, that fewer still will The waiting or the memory of waiting or the memory Tis abandoned drive-in theater of Here, Now is a lightning field Įverything waits for the lightning. Like a poem, but with a zipper clearly running down its back. The unsuspecting something Not of Tis Earth, something Lies just below the surface, waiting to unleash upon Merely a spinning needle in a movie where a meteorite Of pictures, the one that destroys every compass just byĮntering your eye, & words, too-every tongue In that great magnetic field of language, the one made Then steely then soft again before turning to steel forever Well, she’s sort of a poem: something soft Where do you turn for consolation? Probably to a movie, something Her blood soaked his sleeves, the bullet holeīlack beneath her heart not just the powder, His cheeks, flushed with it, kissing her as if Embrace, she wipes the red from her mouth
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