Apparition Poem #1147


#1147

Moments when she let her hair
down & out- lank-dyed, dirty
blonde, fluffed with fingers, in
sunset's drowse, at the Drop before—

in the years it took me to see
the wind of what she was in
the world— prize two-minute
porridge— the sun would set

also on the nights I scoped
her as though she were something,
& we ourselves more solid than not—