The Night Bowie Died
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Last night before we made love
I heard something through the speaker over the din of Frasier’s voice and Nile’s love for Daphne and it was repetitive and low and it made me feel unsettled We tangled and untangled and afterwards the noise continued on - Circadian or something, low and humming and then lower and humming and I had to ask if you could hear it to be sure it wasn’t inside me and it wasn’t; we stepped outside back in, windows opened and quieted and through the cool desert air we heard it, together, while it continued on It must be a helicopter or something A foghorn in the dust, those coyote ghost ships of cholla wood and stardust, but it continued on and it kept us unsettled and left us wondering what howl produced by the night time Catalinas was lingering in our crisp and thankful night air I fell asleep to the hum and dreamt of dancing Of samba and cha cha and pushing forward through loud and confident bachatas And when I woke it felt strange and dizzy sort of like I had rolled out of a twist and onto my sheepskin bedside rug I crept into the shower and uncharacteristically forgot to close the bedroom door Skirts were still twirling I guess or my feet kept on moving from dream to reality involuntarily and with suspect, a din of last nights hum still leading me to some predictable daily destiny I had bills to pay today and plans to keep on making But as days washed off me under that water I also showered in the memories turned soft and silky of nights spent dancing and days spent turning vinyl over and over into traceable pathways that led me to the kind of worlds and truths that my stomach always told me existed but no man’s maps could ever lead me to find What is there left but stardust anyways? We’ll all die in five years time or five years more Five years plus five years is twice as many years as we’ll have left, someday. |