must hurry

before i go. or i'll forget.


I am in an old western town, a ghost town. There is no one there. I come around one wooden sidewalk, look down another. I see, in my mind



ghosttown


there is no one on the wooden walkways
no one through the window dust
my boots only clacking the lifting panels

dreaming, i know, i see the dreaming sight within this dreaming
an iron gate, fillagreed, tiny arch welded to tiny arch,
waist to waist, armor
its hundred reflected lights
passing over cast details in sequence
just as light would
opening

not here

where then those flashes of gold
from where dreamt, learnt, meant

a spin of dust
into company
here now
her again

dreaming mind, I say, show me
-you can-
show me such specificity
as would turn me to dust

but she turns away
on the wooden walkway
her light hand
like a Sunday girl's
trailing on a rail

wherever i go
she turns from me
shy in death

i can only see the white sweater
the glint of a pale light on its pearls
the blue, the peach, the orange, the shape of the cast shadow
slant-dropped, lavender
a pass of softer color over
the gate that will not open
yet