Bridle

Bridle Deep in the sky, still bright, but cold as a cannonball, redemption burns breathless. Never before did a dusk look so made of cellophane, he decides. Summer died deserving snow. With fingers that have fondled moonbeams he ignites a smoke, delicious. That snow, he knows, will never fall. A girl, almost serious, once said to a nervous hayseed, “and if you do fall, try not to land on the flowers. They’re looking good this year. Or in the creek.” Her words, naked, knocking in the breeze, linger. Across the city, widows, hunkered, window watching, scrutinise the scurrying poverty, and the dining table, borrowed from her parents, has somehow gotten scratched and uncoastered. She steps fully dressed from the bedroom; her hair in places a little loose, as if from gently breaking horses. Somewhere a moth has seen the sunrise.