The last few bars of Mysticali Rose
drifting down the street
mixt with dust and rolling mesquite
the beat lingering there
in that corner where
heat gathers itself up into a knot
of tangled memories and squats
in a heap of rags and print
and sighs out loud for squandered love.
You want to sing
but cannot even hum.
You want to scream
but no sound escapes your mouth.
Only the white moth flies out
making good her fatal break
as bone men strum their liquid guitars
and proud dancers in red shake
their fiery heads in tune, in tune
with the fierce rhythms of leaving.
Featured Painting: Blue Dancers by Susan Reycroft