Ride Home

Diana Senechal

I burrow into your story of the rain
tapping its words darker than heroin.
This is where it began: a mistake,
a dumb lake, a well-intended walk;
this is where it ended: a cloud,
flexing itself over the snail-curled dead.
Your simple eyes I look up to for help,
your yarned-up raven head-mop, for sleep;
pillow me deep, dishevel me hard down
into the blood-bird's throat, leave me alone.

Tie my soul to a stone, explain a song,
tilting it on your cracked and chuckling tongue,
lead me to the playroom with the creaking chest,
yank out the blockhead toys, rehearse the cast,
daze me out riding on your ghost-spun wheels,
dizzy me snorkeling down through the colored coils
of your twizzled mind, where cops and spies grow wild,
and road trips tremble weird and cold.
Grinning to your sparse speech let me stretch mad,
slightly afraid, this far-fetched phony ride.

 


Home
About the author
Republic of Noise
Writings/Speeches
News and press
Contact
Videos
Photos
Blog