wounded beauty,
a tinder box smile.
leaning against a brick wall in the alley
she lit a cigarette,
exhaled the smoke.
across prospect avenue
time lost, time to come. salvation lingers
in the ruins of the church tower
destroyed in a fire during the riots.
the church bells buried.
her jeans had holes in the knees
and her white t-shirt tight,
and for no reason tells me, mostly I walk
from room to room
waiting for the lights to go out.
she flicks the ashes into the gutter
and hands me the cigarette.
her green eyes sparkled
like the broken glass
scattered across the ground
and music comes from a passing car's radio
and when she moves,
she sways like wheat
in the wind.
an anchored light of shattered alley glass
joins us to together, so she asks,
what's your name?
I hand back the cigarette
exhaled the smoke,
Jack, yours?
Dixie.
well Dixie. our horizons seem fated
by some distant sun
setting in a quiet sky. we're the ones
left behind.
I told her my sorrows.
she told me her sorrows.
she reaches, takes my hand
and the ghost between us flees
from the warmth of her hand.
I step closer. Dixie closed her eyes
with the quiet trust
of someone who knows
exactly what she is allowing,
and when I withdraw from the kiss
I feel
the warmth of her breath
and
when the moment comes
the angels hand out flowers
to the hearts
where sorrow sleeps
and all lonely sighs forgiven
by the simple warmth
of a journey's end.