Henri Cole

Sitting on a ledge,



observing the landscape



below, she admires



the proportional



beauty



 



 



of the sycamores,



spires, and greens,



but the air smells ornery,



and she is distracted



by a vibration.



 



 



She wants to wash



her hands but cannot.



All things might



change but do not.



Plagued by uneasy thoughts,



 



 



she wishes she’d



taken the drugs.



It’s as if her head were



partially blown off.



Who will find her?



 



 



The view across



the valley reveals



an electrical storm coming in,



squeezing the clouds,



tearing them asunder.



 



 



Long ago,



her parents nuzzled her,



murmuring, My love,



but now her eyes



are salt-choked,



 



 



and a fragrance



blows from the river,



as daylight topples over,



darkness coming



suddenly in the North.