Boredom seeps
in like water,
condenses
on the outside
of a glass,
dampnes extended
from the inside
out.

Standing on one foot,
the muscle sore from disuse
rediscovering

Curved canyons
beneath a clouded night sky
to the right, a precipitous
drop beyond the white line.
To the left, a thousand headlights.
Inside, peace.
Quiet.
And white knuckles.

Dusky mountains hide
behind hills cut with highway.
One way, no turn out.

A hand in the morning mirror brushes
rumpled hair from the face,
the forehead,
where a new scratch shows,
a crack in the skull where Athena emerged
or a battle scar earned in last night’s nightmares
fighting He Who Must Not Be Named.

Wallflower sitting
on the sides, watching dancers
glide around the floor

Corpulent, crusted
dirt under fingernails
whiskey behind her eyes,
wild animal, Rochester’s
wild bride.