The morning is a flattened black tongue.It falls through me like a chain dropped into a well.
Each time the dead light a cigarette a star goes out.The hills spark and fade and do not suffer
the vagaries of speech. In a drawer, one glove restingnear another is all there's left to say
about shadows gathering near the mineral springslike a tight braid in an unseen fist. A drawer
is a simple box. In it, a woman masqueradingas a name I cannot name. Sweet mother. Blue hills.
In your light, my hands are visible. Your facein mine as the water grows still. [End Page 102]
Michael McGriff's most recent books include the poetry collection Early Hour (Copper Canyon Press, 2017) and the linked story collection Our Secret Life in the Movies (A Strange Object, 2014), which he coauthored with J. M. Tryree.