Harris--Draft

September 27, 2011
Harris was a blue sky
between her electric dust
and all that too-much.
Harris was her breath of fresh air
somewhere between
the ground and the blue,
destined for loss
So she wore him like an albatross
grew a glaze over her eyes,
translucent shade
over spaces, sang
"Mama, come down to get me
'cause there's nothing else left
but my skin and breath
to stretch across your middle
and the better plans we meant once."
She tossed his heart across the continent.

But Harris was a mild-mannered guy,
and he covered her face with his eyes.
She said, "Only if you insist, 'cause the old man's calling from the hill
and the sun's going down faster than I thought."
He pulled her away by the wrists,
said, "I never caught you."
He was a blaze of ammunition,
contagion, disease.
"You are my release," he said,
"My blue sky. Rain on windows,
a Sunday on my shoulders."
She petitioned, cried to the blue sky
but it was all too much.
He caught her missing the last bus out,
running barefoot, underneath the albatross.