Spotlight Sonata
  Dominique Bechard

Often I have stumbled home, pumped up
on dope and amphetamines, untroubled
by a dicey borough // an outrageous hour.

Oaks, porticoes, the neighbor's shambolic rhubarb garden,
all inherit my shadow. There is a crooning, that is
cicada dialect // a promise for Cooke on the radio alarm.

Only blind intimacy guides me home: the wind
ruptured by sound, the urge of the road beneath my feet,
an abiding nasal rawness // a whiff of speed.

Often I have thought of nothing, waded through
a pool of dark ether, known the familiar world
by a thin voice // a sweet-tempered touch.

Only to slide my hand home, where a lamp’s milky belly
bundles the landscape into sight. No promise
in the white drill of cicadas // the peroxide miasma.

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