petrified

petrified



dusk over the bike trail, purple strain
on channel b, boys with fishing poles
cast and reel, cast and reel from a wooden
platform. it's not about the catch,
it's about the arc of 10 lb test
against the sky, frozen in the wind; the proximity
to the perfect spot when the ravel stops.

they leave when the sky
is just dusted with dark
when clouds are still
girls in summer neons.

i sit on the handrail cuz that's so junior high.
think of arrested development. the way a piece
of wood can turn to stone in a desert
like the hipbone of a small animal you found

in gypsum stacks near gibsonton, excavating
prehistory for our children, not with them.
missing the point again.



from this side of the trance, motionless , a rabbit
has lopped into view. when i turn, glacial,
she freezes:. fear has kept her alive
so far. if i were a hawk i might pass her by.

as it is my eyes devour
the way the breeze ruffles
her fur, like whispers trying
to calm her vast beating heart
beneath that pretense of living stone.