CALAMITY

The engine over a field of

silence soars. By car we could

get anywhere, and one boy

drove all the way to Idaho

to cut his wrists. A song, like

most things, slips away.

But music is more than

articulation of silence and

sound, it is a concept

organizing relief. We gave up

under the strain, temptation’s

claim. Arterial inflection then

a mass and then a wash and

then three points of reference

and then a train. Down the drive

and into the dropoff’s sheer.

A perplexing tree by the

walkway. Nowhere seemed

better, any longer, than here.