boarderlandscapes
like a shotgun shack
insulbrick and black and white
televisions that smelled of ozone
and heat in the fetid summer
humidity
porch moth orchestras
thumping their winged madness
on the shell of the hot bulbs bitter burn

chromed fans humming in metal
cages droning swiveling like a turret
gunner before take off
Apocalypse Now re-run
Na Trang orders to Willard
a couch of wool blend and hardwood
a stretch coffee table
laying like her length asleep
the sweep stirring the rich chocolate
brunette
the winter pale flesh
smooth in its youthful newness
nineteen going on forty
raising the family
the horror and the glory

the nickle plate in the magazine on
the lazy-boy
spine down
handle up
safety off
they shot tin cans off each
others heads
Peaches..
the syrup still on their lips
glistening in the sun
after awhile you get so
you dont flinch
its intuition
the retort just another
report
like lightning and thunder
when your in jungle
when your pounding
the ground like a grunt
with all the gear

she was born with her mothers
body and her fathers eyes
snake quick and cunning as
a wolf

the fan hypnotizes the dreams
the television droning dialogue
in the kitchen with its sparkling
water and soaking plates and
cutlery a fly struggles on the
curling strip tacked to the ceiling
the car glints wide and long in
the grassy drive
the porch with its geraniums
brilliant as Maybelline red
sway in the heat of a summer
breeze

a wrist and nails draped
across one knee
stir

in the dream it is raining
and its always that iron bridge
sleek with moisture
dripping like a ship
wipes her black velvet glove
from her thick brow
blinks her brilliant blue eyes

an arch of sky painful deep
colors her thoughts
the breeze on her cheeks

before the black handset
in the hall stutters to life
with its loud announcement
two long rings and one short
their number
and
she's awake

...