The thin pulse steady even in sleep fleeing for freedom from backyard bonfire bongo circles, deep dreams of Thoreau with a drum machine, a beat pad and the beaten path. Bouncing into another artist’s song, our daydream visions swelling with a calling, calling, cull. V. The bus pulled out of the parking lot and Suzanne stood between the steel highway girders, and the sloping river bank. Across the road a diner, outlet mall, and antennae of an air force base, spires and radio signals honing in concentric spirals above The Homeland. She walked down the riverbank, immediately falling in the loose, wet soil sliding down the crescent on her gingham skirt, and sat, the river curled around her toes. She cried the wind out of her, choking on her hopes expired, time pulling out her hair. The sun sank and she shivered through the sweep of dusk and owl air. VI. Sub-marine and nearly freezing midnight dream or wholly hallucination, but the bubble, gurgle, hiss spitting from the tardark water rose from halo lips of torn shapes, the sandy bottom figures white beneath the moonlight. VII. The Month of May in the halfway house. Half the time insisting she was sober, half translating ripples in the hardwood floors, the radiator screams, and saving soggy tea leaves. The nuns were nice, alright. Breaking hearts because why? Why? Why? Such a sweet girl with a sunshine smile. So many young ones staying here with just the slightest
99