Songsmith:
Flight to Miami
Assonance, she says.
He says little but
the object of desire
desire which so lingers
in nothing;
un-reconciled desire is
a waterfall of vowels.
In a medium-sized jet arcing
over the Eastern Seaboard,
sun from the right window recedes,
the color of aging bruises.
Blood floods a wound and heals it.
Sun the color of lips and teeth
and the crescents of fingernails
or freckles,
the portals of passage into
the body of another, he says,
but does not look back.
She says fruits,
the fruits of her labor;
Coney Island a ripe fruit dangling
as we seek our apex.
Coney Island a stump tail,
clipped wing of the jet;
New York City is a jet fuel cloud,
the whisker of an aging bum lady.
Lucinda Williams with a voice
that cracks;
sunlight flashing through
a narrow cut in the buildings,
cracking on the edge of song.
And between the shards of her syllables,
her fragile fraying syllables,
I can hear the Captain saying
Virginia and
out over the Atlantic…
What theory of grammar,
speech,
or literature applies?
We crawl along the jet stream
toward the outer banks.
Sunlight from the right the color of
a spring time victory,
Jolie Holland,
I heard you crooning.
And which song will finally
describe the leaving?