by Bill Shively

She showed you which way the arrows angled
in the dark,
stitching a white jagged suture
across a torn night’s flesh
of snowmass and sagebursh,
the moon crying

between blinding squalls.
When you couldn’t see her fingers in
in the headlight glow
you still hesitated
unsure if right

the other right
despite the blue squabble
of lost landmarks and black ice
frozen marsh and rain like rice
even if

it wasn’t trust.
you collapse into
the passion of
flannel and books
hot like whisky soft like cream.

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