Fingers Leaving a Loose Woman
Danielle Hanson


                         Here we have stopped giving
                         the dying good wine.
                         We have stopped calling them.

 
It started with a light,
the forces of angels colliding,
fate kidnapped from her bed.
Somewhere a storm
overtakes the land even as it runs.
Here time stands as a broken clock.
It’s 3 ‘til 8.  It’s always 3 ‘til 8.
I’ve been awake,
my dreams have melted,
the puddle dried.
The coffee maker is broken.
my body brews.
We slip in and out of time.
We are clothes leaving a loose woman,
fingers strumming guitar strings.
It is true things lost reappear
but we would gladly exchange
this for forgetting.